I was in the school cafeteria when it happened. Certain events had led to this inevitable conclusion, but still, even knowing did not soften the shock that caused my heart to quicken, or my hands to shake. My mother waved me over. That was the first sign, really. She'd never been at the school in the middle of the day unless I was in some serious trouble. She told me she had packed my things and that we'd be going to a nearby city.
For what? I would ask.
We're dropping you off at the hospital.
It was then I knew that all faith in my sanity had indubitably been lost. The hospital in question was actually a mental wing. This one in particular tended to teens with a myriad of conditions, from anger issues to suicidal tendencies. And I was to room with them, to be a part of their group. I did not speak that first day. I reserved my speech for when it really mattered.
Days there were filled with a definitive monotony. Hours and hours spent in our individual rooms (some of us paired with roommates), to contemplate our thoughts. No pencils to write with for fear that we would harm ourselves. Nothing on the television except whatever documentary they decided to torture us with, generally one in the vicinity of suicide prevention.
Sometimes we played games, the safest ones for our brittle minds. Ones that we could supposedly handle without a meltdown. Freeing as these happenings were, they were also fleeting. Few and far between, as they say. Over time, I grew to know my compatriots, those who, as well as myself, brandished wounds invisible to the naked eye. Scars that made their place deep beneath the skin.
During all this, my generally cool attitude lead the staff to question as to whether or not I was actually ill. Though, I think we're all a bit sick in one way or another. I made friends with people I would not normally make friends with, or so I thought. Friends who I would grow to cherish, as they would me, despite my short time there.
The morning staff were awful to us. Treated us as second rate human beings, some even wishing severe harm or death upon us. The lack of support from our counselor only strengthened our resolve and brought us closer together. To this day, I cannot say if things had changed for the better when I left.
I never would have guessed that a place that was meant to help the mentally lost would actually push them deeper into the proverbial forest. I came very close to wondering whether life was worth living. And in fact it was my familial sense of influence that kept me alive, and kept everyone else from going off the deep end. Something about me, or so they said, kept them from feeling un-alone.
When I sat down to eat, breakfast, lunch, or dinner, I sat by myself in those first few days. Scared to interact. Scared that maybe their problems would become my own and my mother would think worse of me than she already did. Then one person joined me, and as I opened up to others, my table would be filled. Conversation and laughter, a welcome respite from the hell we all endured.
I departed with a lighter heart, knowing it was not the doctors or the mediocre counselor that helped me, but the people who joined me on my quest, if only for a little while.
I've never done hard drugs. Pills, certainly. Medication like vicodin or percocet or hyrdocodone, each of which, when swallowed, drifted your mind into a fog. Everything a haze, reality suddenly warped even though you knew it had stayed the same. I craved them. I craved the feelings they gave me. A sort of orgasmic flow swimming in my veins. A feather defying gravity.
And then the crashes. The sleep that blended time and space where as you woke up, you had forgotten everything in the last couple days (or longer).
Pills can cause madness just as life can. The difference is one is a choice, and one is bestowed upon you by force. I've stayed away from pills for many years, opting for marijuana. Due to its current legal status, however, we have an on-and-off relationship.
I think back on these times and wonder if I'm any better.
Or maybe, I might just be worse.