What the hell? Why was I awake, and not dead? Why was I only knocked out for six hours instead of forever? Why didn’t it work? I had tried so hard to achieve one simple goal, and had failed, yet again.
The pain was much worse than I had expected, especially since I expected to never feel pain again. I expected I’d be in Hell, or wherever I was going to go, not lying in bed, vomiting. This didn’t make any sense.
I gripped my legs as hard as I could, trying to hold my screams in from the pain. I couldn’t even function properly. I wasn’t breathing correctly, or able to walk without stumbling.
I crawled to the toilet, and vomited some more. I thought I’d be use to the feel of stuff climbing back up my throat by now from my eating disorder, but I wasn’t. It was the worst feeling in the world.
I began to rethink that death was the easiest way out, because it was a lot more difficult than it had seemed.
I dragged myself across the floor back to my bedroom, moaning with each movement I attempted to make. It hurt so bad, just as bad as all of the emotional pain I’ve had. I couldn’t take it. I dragged myself into bed, and tried to wait it out.
I was only able to wait around an hour before I had started screaming. My parents eventually came into my room, and had saw I was sick. They thought I had caught a bug, or had food poisoning, but I can’t blame them. I hid all of the signs of my depression, and I blocked them out. It was my fault, not theirs, so I can’t be mad at them. They didn’t do anything wrong.
After a while, I told my mother what I had done. She was in absolute shock. She didn’t even believe me.
“You better not be lying.”
That was all she had said at first. Those words will stick with me forever. I don’t think she meant it in a bad way, she just must have been so confused. What had happened to her happy little girl who would smile on the worst days? I would have been quite confused, too.
Well anyways, she had told my father and walked away. I showed him the empty bottle, and he took me to the Lake Norman Regional Medical Center Emergency Room. I had the waste bin with me, and I sure needed it. Nothing was staying down, not even my blood.
When we arrived, the woman at the front desk had taken all of my information from my father, who seemed slightly shaken by the event, and had me sit in the waiting room.
I just sat there in severe pain for what felt like hours. I wouldn’t answer any of my father’s questions. I just tried to tune him out. I was still expecting to die, just maybe with a little more comfort.
I don’t know why I had opened my mouth and said I overdosed. Why didn’t I just let someone find my dead body? I had ruined my own plan.
“Melissa?” a nurse had said. I looked over at her, and she motioned for me to follow. She took my vitals, and then sent me to a ‘room.’ I say ‘room’ because it was basically a stretcher, some equipment, and a sheet as a wall. Oh well, there was no reason to complain on my death bed, I thought. I just tried to fall back asleep, hoping I wouldn’t wake up again.
I got a rude awakening to a needle in my arm. I woke up immediately, and saw the fluid being pumped into my body. At this point, sharp objects didn’t phase me one bit; I was used to them. I attempted to sleep again, but instead was intruded with questions.
“How are you feeling?”
“Why’d you do it?”
“Was it for attention?”
“How many did you take?”
“Why won’t you tell us anything?”
“How much pain do you feel?”
I just tried to ignore each question shot at me as much as I could. They just made everything worse and more stressful.
I didn’t care about getting better, so why tell them? I was just ready to die, so they didn’t need to know anything. I rolled over once more, and then the doctor came in, asking more questions.
“Even if you don’t talk here, you’ll have to talk somewhere else,” he warned me. I just brushed it off. The only other place I was going would be six feet under.