this is the first, unedited journal entry from my time in the hospital after my suicide attempt.
Every morning, I wake up to the sound of either someone screaming or a stranger asking to take my blood pressure. “Are you in pain?” they always ask. Oh, of course not, I think. I’m just fine. I watch the nurses here and I wonder what they must think of all of us. What they must think of me. I wonder if I am just another body to fill a bed. To them, this is just another day at the office. They come and go as they please. Sometimes I even hear their cell phones going off in the pockets of their scrubs. It must be nice to be free.
I look around and I am surrounded by so many sad people. No one seems to be getting any better. In fact, most seem to be getting worse. Each second I am here, I feel more and more miserable. No one has even talked to me about why I’m here. I don’t think this place is meant to make you better. I think it’s where they put you temporarily so they don’t have to deal with you. I can’t tell people this, but I still wish I had been successful in my attempt.
As I write this, I can barely even hold the pages of my journal together. They made me take out the string that ties the pages to the leather-bound cover. I guess they’re afraid I might use it to strangle myself. Little do they know, that would never be my method to commit suicide.
I have to ask for a new pencil every couple pages, because God forbid this place had a pencil sharpener. Lord know what all of us psychos might do with that. And we’re only allowed to have short pencils- no long ones. I cannot even imagine the reasoning for that and I truly don’t want to. I think the next time Ashley visits I might ask her to smuggle me in a pen.
This place makes me feel so hopeless. And the worst part is, I don’t even have the energy to fake it and get myself out.