Minutes feel like hours when you’re sitting in a hospital bed, in severe pain, waiting for the doctor to come. Honestly, I was scared about what he would say to me. I was afraid he would ridicule me. And I was more afraid that he would tell me that I would live. I didn’t need to feel worse than I already did.
I looked around the room to get my troubled mind off of things. I looked to my right, and saw glass that was my wall. I looked in front of me and saw my “babysitter.” I looked to my left, and saw a window, with the blinds sealed shut.
I started to feel strange. I mean, I already had, but this was different. I could literally feel the fluids going through my veins. It didn’t make sense. I just assumed that this was happening because I was about to die. Adrenaline started going through my body, and I felt jittery. I was so close, I just had to wait a bit longer, and my greatest dream would come true.
That dream quickly became a nightmare. Hours later, I was still living and breathing. The doctor had finally arrived, and didn’t tell me whether I was expected to live or die. He did say that my liver enzymes are high. Really high. I didn’t know what that meant, nor was I listening when he tried to explain it to me. I didn’t want to listen. I didn’t care.
I was sick of stupid doctors. They don’t listen to your opinion, they just believe what’s in the text books. Even my own parents were that way. My own voice was overruled by words written down on a page. Trying to explain was futile.
My feelings didn’t seem to matter to them. They didn’t seem to care how I would feel when they said rude things to me. One of the nurses told me that they make overdose patients drink this awful thing to make them feel bad, and punish them for what they did.
That didn’t make any sense. The patient was already feeling absolutely terrible, and their idea of treatment was to make them feel worse?
Things weren’t looking up. I don’t know how they were expecting to fix me. I was a lost cause. There was no hope for me. I was mentally dead.
My parents were still in shock. How could their little girl who was always so happy do such a thing? What pushed me over the edge? Why didn’t I show signs of my depression? How could the person they thought they gave the perfect life to want to take it away?
There’s only one answer.
It’s all because I’m me.