The Morning After

The Morning After

The morning after I killed myself I had a flat stomach when I woke up. I was drowning in my sweatshirt. My head lifted off the pillow and I took in the room I was laying in, and the mat on the floor I was laying on. I wasn't allowed to go to my room yet, I had piercings in; I could use them to hurt myself.

The morning after I killed myself I got looked at by the nurses with pity. I got scrutinized by their gaze on every inch of my body, with and without clothes, making sure I wasn't bring anything in that could be a harm to myself or others. I took my clothes off layer by layer, handing them over. I watched as they marked down on a sheet of paper every scar and imperfection I had on my body. I turned when they told me to turn. I lifted my feet when they told me to. I took my bracelets off. I took my hair down. I got dressed again, and was led to the dayroom.

The morning after I killed myself I stared at my body in the mirror. For the first time in my life, I had a flat stomach. I pulled my sweatshirt taught across my middle, and marveled at the fat which I didn’t see. It must have been from the pills, and now much they made me puke.

The morning after I killed myself I went to breakfast, and sat alone. The other girls ate and laughed and talked about when the doctors said they might be able to leave. There were whispers of “I saw your name on the board for Wednesday. Lucky!” Your name on the board means your doctor said you could leave. Unless you did something drastic of course.

The morning after I killed myself I went into the dayroom, and had to participate in therapy. I had to introduce myself, and that was it. I wasn’t pushed to talk to a group of girls I didn’t know yet, or an adult paid to make sure I got better.  

The morning after I killed myself I went to lunch and made a friend. She called me over and proclaimed to the nurses “Look, I made a friend!” We were inseparable within an hour. I watched her eat, not able to eat myself. The bottle of pills messed up my stomach, and made me unable to eat or drink anything. I got questioning looks from the nurses, and got marked down on my point sheet. I had to explain to the watchful eyes holding a clipboard, able to leave in 8 hours, that it’s not that I don’t want to eat. I’m not here for anorexia. I can't eat because my stomach. I was told to try, and my point was given back.

The morning after I killed myself I sat in a bland office, in a stiff chair, with my legs tucked under me, with socks. Shoes weren’t allowed. We all went around in socks. A doctor walked into the bland room, saying my name with a soft voice. He looked at me like he looked at every other patient he has seen sit in this grey chair, with the same tortured eyes. He asked me why I was here, and my answer was simple. I took a bottle of pills. After I took them my muscles tightened to the point where I couldn’t move, or speak. I was asked my name by a nurse in simple blue scrubs, and all I could do was open my mouth. She yelled “She can’t speak” and I was wheeled to a bed, where I heard her tell my parents that it was too late to give me charcoal or pump my stomach. All they could do was wait.

The morning after I killed myself I was told I would be started on new medication. They couldn’t put me back on the old stuff; my old pills were what I overdosed on.

The morning after I killed myself I had to explain to my doctor why I did it. I stared at my hands, wanting to disappear. I could feel his gaze on me. Not judging me, not rushing me, but studying me. Waiting for me to speak. I felt ashamed. All he wanted to do was help me, and I couldn’t even speak to him and give him what he wanted. He wanted to know me. Yes, he had a blue blinder showing him the places where I had mutilated my own body, my vitals, mundane things about me. But not my thoughts.

The morning after I killed myself I decided to open up. First to the girl at lunch, then to my doctor. She was sympathetic, understanding, she was here for the same thing too. He was interested, calculating, he was here because it was his job.

The morning after I killed myself I shared stories with my friend. She had a perfect boyfriend, and we joked about how I needed my own ‘him.’ She showed me a picture of her and her brother, and told me why she was here, and that it was her 4th time. She knew all the nurses, and they all knew her.

The morning after I killed myself I went to dinner, all of us getting hand sanitizer as we walked out of the dayroom. We lined up against the wall as the nurse counted us, before putting her badge in front of the sensor that opens the locked door to a room holding another locked door, to the hallway that has a 20ft by 20ft room converted into a cafeteria. We all made a line, ate our food; everyone but me of course. I wasn’t even hungry. Heartbreak will do that to a person. They watched to make sure we threw all of our silverware away so we couldn’t go back with anything sharp. I didn’t have any silverware. I had a cup of water I stared at while listening to my friend talk to me. Again I got marked down, this time by the evening staff. Again I had to explain my stomach. Again I got my point back.

The morning after I killed myself I eventually had to go to the bathroom. Since we aren't allowed in our rooms until night, I used the one down the hall from the dayroom. There were no locks. My skin was grey, my eyes sunken back, I looked small and damaged. Again I pulled my sweatshirt taught against my stomach, checking. I still had a flat stomach. I smiled, and wondered how long it would last. My smile slipped.

The morning after I killed myself I was coloring in the dayroom with my friend. They had an endless supply of crayons. Apparently the only utensils we couldn’t hurt ourselves with. No more erasers after one girl took one to her room and gave herself a burn. Sure as hell no sharp pencils. They had plain white paper, or actual coloring sheets. They gave me a new folder to put all my papers in. Both my drawings, and my papers I got during group therapy. My friend and I were writing song lyrics and making pretty designs around them when it was announced that visiting would begin. They started calling names to line up to go to the cafeteria to visit. My name was called. My friend’s wasn’t.

The morning after I killed myself I didn't want to go see my parents during visiting. I was embarrassed. Guilty. I wanted to hide, but I knew I couldn’t turn them away, so I began walking. I slid through the two newly unlocked doors in my socks, looking down at my clothes. I hadn't been allowed in my room. I'm still wearing the same outfit.

The morning after I killed myself my parents smiled as I walked through the door. I guess they were just happy I was alive and in the care of “professionals.”

The morning after I killed myself I walked back down the hallway and lined up with the other girls after visiting. I waited in line, just wanting to get back to the dayroom. I wanted sleep. I didn't get any the night before.

The morning after I killed myself I walked to my room holding a brown paper back with all my clothes in it. They had been checked first of course. Everything had been checked. My shampoo and everything was in the locked closet in a bin labeled ‘Ava’s sharps.’ Girls on either side of me were laughing and didn't seem to mind they were in a mental hospital. They skipped from room to room, laughed and sat on beds talking with several feet between them.No touching allowed. They will take points off.

The morning after I killed myself I looked in the mirror again in my room, specifically my bathroom, and pulled my sweatshirt tight across me. I marveled at the lack of...everything. No fat. I feel the urge to eat something, but my mind goes back to the reason I'm here. The hunger is chased away with a vengeance. In its place are the tears I can see reflected in the mirror. I watch as one silently rolls down my cheek, thinking about the past. I swipe it away as I hear my roommates laughter at something another girl said as she walks into our room.

The morning after I killed myself I laid on the 2 inch thick mattress, with the white on white on white sheets and blanket with my sorry excuse for a pillow clutched in my arms. Curled into a ball, back to my sleeping roommate, I’m consumed by my own thoughts. My mind goes back to yesterday morning. I didn't go to school, instead, I downed a bottle of pills. At first I didn't feel any different. Then I started shaking. Seeing my clothes move across the floor. Heart racing. Spiders from my imagination becoming real before my fading eyes. The stiffness in my muscles. Then the pain set in. It’s like a period cramp, but different because you know you’re dying. Your light is fading out, organs in your body can't handle what is happened, and begin to give up. I made a run for the toilet, and puked up the one pancake I managed to eat that morning. When I stood back up and looked in the mirror, that’s when I noticed my stomach. I was too dizzy to care. I kept my hand on the wall, hunched over, trying to keep myself upright walking to my room. Every few seconds everything would go black and I wouldn't remember what I was doing. Where I was. Anything. It was the ultimate high.

I squeeze my eyes shut as I’m drawn back to reality by hearing the flip of a paper from the nurse, marking down that I was in my room at 10:15. Every 15 minutes they have to mark where you are. As her footsteps pad away, I open my eyes and tears flow freely. I feel so bad for doing this to my parents. I remember my dad’s reaction… too painful to think about. I will that thought away. Instead I think the word sleep, over and over again. And sure enough, I close my eyes, wishing for sleep, and this time with the intention to wake up.

The morning after I killed myself I tried again 10 months later.

Reviews

[Brian F. Lockard]

This was powerful. Cynical and true. The first sentence grips you from the start. A nice antithesis to the usual sunshine and rainbows we're continuously fed. It is very well-written.

-Brian

[Kira Brock]

Thank you so much. That was the first time I've gotten any feedback from someone who wasn't a teacher or family.