Buck Up, Kiddo

There’s the smell of cough syrup in the air. Or at least, that’s what the inside of this psychiatric ward smells like. Cough syrup. I guess that’s the best smell approximation for the cacophony of medications in the air. Paired with homeless schizophrenics and your run-of-the-mill loon. But how did I get here? That’s a good question. I was just asking myself that question: how THE FUCK did I get on this cot, in this room? To this day, I can't give you a single answer to pinpoint what got me here. I can't identify the straw that broke the camels back. I don't even know if there is a straw. So what do you do whilst you're in here? Think. Ain't shit else to do.

So what do you ponder? I thought about my life. The good and the bad. Being all of 23 years old, the flash before my eyes was more of a commercial length than a movie. But there were still moments. I thought about the ventures to foreign lands. Big ass cruises that marched across the seas to sunnier skies. Sandy beaches I've dug my feet into, and listened to the symphony of the ocean as waves crashed. I thought about dinners had on different soils. Movies watched, books read, ivory keys stroked, guitar chords strum, dragon ball-z characters drawn, assassin's creed played, girls kissed-- on both pairs of lips--, all folded into in a lifetime. I thought about how the broken glass screeched across the floor, as my mother swept it into the dust pan. My drunk stepdad had broken the mirror on the back of my door, when he bulldozed into my room. Grabbed me by the collar and hissed, "I thought I told you to go bed!" I just looked, eyes glaring. Not with fear. With disgust and contempt. He could sense it pouring off of me. It's probably apt that he hated me. I hated him, and I didn't tap dance around my animosity. It was evident in how I would stare at him, when he spat venom at me. So I didn't answer him and he slapped me onto the bed. My lip had a metallic taste when it touched my tongue. My mom dove in front of him, to defend her child. All four foot ten of her, against his six feet. He slithered out of the room. Cowardly snake, he was. I thought about how he would yell at her so loud, it would wake me up from my sleep. "HEATHER!" shook the apartment. Then I would hear the front door open and slam, as she would take to the hallway, so that I wouldn't be party to their quarrel. I thought about the day after my busted lip. How my mom packed me up and we went to my "Oma's" house. I thought about the look on her face, as she placed the "Dear John" letter on the table, locked the door and walked to ring the elevator.

But that's just one painful memory. That didn't lead me here. I vaguely remember a guy that walked with me into this place. He wore all black and whispered poison into my ear. He told me his name was Depression. He's a toxic friend of mine. I can't introduce you to him, you have to meet him on your own. I pray you never do, although some of you already know him. Whenever he comes around, I'm confined to my room. Turn off the lights please and just let me rest. I'm so fuckin' tired. Emotional, physical and mental exhaustion blend into a cocktail, that when drank, leaves you immobile. I would rather be anyone but me when that happens. You just want to feel better. You'll do anything to make it stop. Oh please, deity that may or may not be real, make it stop. Depression knows all of this. He sees the plea for comfort telegraphed across your face. He just laughs and smiles. Then he puts a sinister suggestion on the table. He knows a way for all the pain to stop. But only you can do it. No one else can an end to it. You want to sleep don't you? This is the way. And with that one suggestion, I knew I had to check myself into the cuckoos nest. Now was not the time for pride. Now was not the time for black embarrassment. Now was the time for help. I knew I needed to get away from this "friend." He was making a persuasive argument to the court of my brain. I was losing the argument, for and of my life.

So here I am. Thinking my life over and finding the will to live. Looking back, I wasn't exactly the picture of mental health and was in an extremely unhealthy relation. All this contributed to my overall outlook. On that cot that day, I discovered that there's a lot of ways you can write your story. But a period at the end of the sentence is quite final. Let's not end the sentence just yet. How about we just put a semicolon? That way, we can fit a couple more chapters. Who's know whether they'll be shit or the best story you've ever read. The point is, you can't know either way, if you put a period. If you need some help getting to this conclusion, there's zero shame in seeking it. It doesn't have to be as scary as a mental ward; but what can I say? I have a flair for the dramatic. All I ask, is that you don't listen to that fake friend. When he comes around and tells you to put a period, write like hell. So buck up, kiddo. The story is far from over.