I didn't really plan on continuing this story, mostly because I just felt that "Meh, whatever, it's only another plain jane story about some guy in the loony bin." But I guess I sort of owe it to myself to finish it up.
Anyways! The visit with my dad was good, but there was this strangeness in the room. It felt really bizarre talking to my dad about my mental health, it just wasn't the sort of thing we'd talk about...ever. I was delighted about the fact that he had brought me food I was actually comfortable eating, so that helped eased the "strangeness" a bit. Later that evening, I got really excited about being able to wear my own clothing instead of the terrible hospital garb. When I stepped into the little shower room, I looked at the dirty mirror and sighed. I had had better days. I hadn't shaved in a while, and my hair was rather gross looking. I look like a fricken mental patient alright, was my only thought. The shower was probably one of the worst I've taken. The water barely came out of the head (and didn't get very warm either!) But it was great to feel clean and have my clothes back. Finally, I can have some of my identity back. After a while more of visiting my dad, it was time for him to go, and for me to take my meds. What had begun as a small headache had now become rather painful, and I was feeling pretty light headed (and some other unpleasant digestive issues that I'm really not about to mention.) I felt like I was going to faint, but I told my nurse I wasn't feeling well and crawled miserably into my bed, still in my day clothes. I've overdosed on my psych meds! was my initial thought. And let me tell you, I was scared.
I once imagined looking down at myself on a slab. The pallor of my skin, the way the light would look, no movement underneath my eyelids. The whole image seemed romantic, in the poetic sense that it didn't repulse me or cause me to be scared. In fact, it's one of the few images I'm able to clearly hold in my mind. You see, I've never been afraid of being dead, or death itself. But its the dying, the getting there that terrifies me. But if I picture myself on that slab...I could only imagine what I looked like lying on that hospital bed, wracked by shivers, unable to sweat...feeling as though I could really die. And this, folks, is ultimately what stops me from planning on going through with whatever self-destructive thoughts I may have. Slowly though (after drinking a crap ton of water) I started to feel better. But just before I fell asleep, two nurses came in and whispered
"Is he breathing?" And I exhaled softly, to let them know. I had decided that night, that I was going to do whatever it took to get out of there.