Who are we really?
Schizophrenia, depression, anxiety, psychosis. Those are the words spoken around me. I tell them the same story multiple times. To the ER nurse, the emerge doctor. They put me in a 10 by 12 room, with the chairs bolted to the floor. I tell my story another 3 times to the different physiatrists there, never looking them in the eye. I have yet to look anyone in the eye since this happened. Then, 12 hours later, they send me home and the next day, I get a police car ride to the hospital. I had a "little accident", I was an emotional mess.
They lock me into that same room and they throw in a stretcher for me to sleep on. They come in to check on me. I tell them that the voices in my head are a lot worse. That I was not supposed to tell anyone, including the people who were going to make them go away. But, I told anyways, I knew I was supposed to. When you hold a knife to you wrist to make blood come out, you need to tell.
The nurse wasn't much help. He didn't have any patients for me. I told them the same story as before except I wasn't supposed to tell, and that got them mad. Finally he just gives me my supper and leaves. They medicate me to make me sleep but I still keep waking up.
The next day, and ambulance takes me to another hospital that has an open bed. An hour and a half away from my home. Away from my family and friends. They give me a bed that's in the room as another, a complete stranger. They medicate me, feed me, and make me tell the same story. Except this time they ask questions. What do they say? You know they hold no power over you, right? What is so scary about them? They ask me almost every question, almost, they get close but not close enough.
They don't ask me what I want them to ask, and I don't want to say it either. Another 3 days of it and a bed opens up in the first hospital. This time my Dad drives me. He is very supportive, and I can now say I have seen my Dad cry. Trust me when I say this, you NEVER want to see your Dad cry. Since then, I have been calling him Daddy. I get up to a new room, new people, and new rules. I don't even have a room, it's a little cubbyhole with a curtain. I'm allowed to take a shower, so I do so. It feels nice, having the hot water wash away the pains and memories. Making it a little easier to face this new challenge.
They make me an appointment with the right people for the next day. They ask me the same questions but also new ones. They go farther back, and it catches me off guard. I hope that they will ask me the question but they don't. They get even closer, and it's frustrating. I know I should tell them, but I can't. I am stopped each time. 2 hours later, I get sent back to my hole, with the knowledge that, in a week, I am going to have to do it again. I don't know if they will keep me here until, or send me home.
I am just waiting for that one person to ask that question. That one question that could help me. They all seem to be dancing around it. I am waiting for them to ask "What are you scared of?" Yes they asked me that, they asked me what I am scared of doing, what I'm scared will happen, they ask but they don't really ask. I already have the answer:
I will finally look them in the eye, and stare at them for about 5 seconds. I will count in my head. I'll sit up straighter and say "The dark."
See when you just say, "I am scared of the dark", they think, ok let's put on the lights. It's not "the dark" that I am scared of. Throw me into a closet with no light and shut the door, I might actually thank you. What scares me is that, in my WHOLE ENTIRE life, I have never wanted to hurt anyone, not even myself. I value my friends and families lives way above mine. I would rather DIE than hurt one of them. The dark that makes people kill in cold blood, the dark that makes people hurt each other. This is what scares me, the fact that it's in me, and it's getting harder and harder to control.
I am scared that there is going to be a day that I finally snap, and do what I have never wanted to do before.