WHEN YOU KILL YOURSELF

Part 2  A Journey Back To Life

May 22, 1994

Part 1

"This is the story of my life. I always go in the wrong door first."

                                        Kurt Vonnegut Jr. - Jailbird

This is not going to look on my resume - not at all. I woke this Sunday morning locked within the walls and halls of the Cape Psych Center, the psychiatric unit of Cape Cod Hospital. My biggest fears have come true, I'm in a mental hospital - I've landed in the cuckoo's nest, a nut house. I am supposedly confined for my own safety and protection. No one trusts me! I'm on suicide watch and every fifteen minutes a nurse or aide checks on me. I am reminded of the Hotel California by the Eagles and the words, "You can check out anytime you want but you can never leave."

Strange thoughts pass through a troubled mind. I feel as though I have woken from a night of bad dreams, only to find myself living in a nightmare without end. I feel a gun against my temple, my finger on the trigger - and hear the words one, two, three, fire. I must find a way to escape from this place as one patient did this afternoon. I am trapped, caged - not just within these walls but within myself. And how does one escape from me, myself and I? I don't know if I'm the only normal person here or the only abnormal one - I only know that I am now unrecognizable to myself.

The past week has disappeared without a trace - I have no real knowledge of having lived it. I've been told that I spent five days in the I.C.U. - three of those days I was in a coma and two days coming out of the coma. The only memory I have of that time is this, and I'm not sure if it actually happened or if it was a dream - I remember being asked by a woman dressed in white if I knew where I was and I replied, "Arizona!" I don't have a clue as to what that means or if it means anything at all.

I have a vague memory of being wheeled into this unit sometime late Friday night - although at the time I didn't know it was Friday nor that it was the Psych Center. I just remember being wheeled into an empty room, a nurse giving me a couple of pills and a glass of water - then being told it was time for bed.

Yesterday was mostly a blur. I am a walking zombie, living and passing through reality as if it was dream, a foggy mirage. For reasons unknown I was alive - somehow survived my suicide but neither knew why nor how. And really didn't care, either because I was in a state of shock or from too much mood altering medications - or a combination of both.

It is now Sunday night and it has been a long and tiring day. My entire body aches - am bruised and black and blue everywhere. My throat is sore from the breathing tube and my private parts are sore from the catheter. The inside part of my arms are bruised from IV needles. My wrists, palms, ankles and calves are black and blue from being strapped down and from my violent behavior as I tried to free myself from the restraints as I slowly came out of my coma. Yesterday and again this morning doctors and nurses explained this to me, but it is all a mystery to me even though my body bears the proof of all that has happened.

I also have a large bruise just below my left hip, near my backside. I was told that this is where I landed when I collapsed in the motel room - and I remained in that position until I was moved by the EMT's. Since it was the lowest part of my body, it was where the blood formed and collected as my heart rate slowed down.

If I had the slightest inkling all this was going to happen to me, I would have used a gun, a bullet to the brain and bang, end of life. But I didn't, simply because I didn't want to shock or emotionally harm the person finding me - dead, laying in a pool of blood with blood, brain and bone matter splattered everywhere. As it was, I still must have been a scary and sorry sight as I laid sprawled across the floor. In time I must get the name and phone number of the chambermaid who found me and call her and apologize - or send her some flowers with a card that says I am sorry.

A week ago today was the most peaceful day of my entire life. If I am as peaceful on the day death truly comes as I was then, I'll die a happy death. I find it hard to comprehend the fact that a week has passed since I stood with a cup of pills in one hand and a glass on wine in the other. It seems and feels as though it was only a moment ago, as if it was still time present. A week passed without me, the world turned and I remained in the realm of unconsciousness. People were born and people died, Jackie Kennedy and my uncle's mother, Phyllis - may they rest in peace. Where this time has gone I do not know, but it went without me. All I have is the last memory of where I have been, with no idea of where I am going.

Yes, it has been a long and tiring day. Although my mind is clearer today than it was yesterday, I am still confused - confused and angry. Confused because I cannot understand, grasp, comprehend what happened to me. How I survived? How I got here? How my suicide attempt failed? What am I to do now? What is expected of me?  So many questions and not a single answer.

I am angry because I didn't die, angry because I'm still alive, locked in a mental hospital. I'm angry because too many of the patients here remind me of myself - as they walk down the halls, bumping into walls and talking to themselves with faraway looks in their eyes. I'm angry because I am doing the same thing and it makes me sad as well. I've turned into a person I really don't kow. Although I recognize the person I see in the mirror, there is little I can truly tell you about him - about who he really is. The grave is a far more preferable place to be than here.