Hello Darkness, My Old Friend: Part Four

 

1ezc8duxrei-osman-rana

 

I messaged my sister and asked her if she got home OK. A few hours later, she replied. After some small talk, she asked me if I hated her. What? ! Where did that come from? “Of course I don’t hate you.” I typed. “I’m not trying to guilt trip you, but you broke my heart. I want my sister back.” She replied. Hmm. Which sister? The one who wanted to end her own life? The sister who hid her all consuming pain behind a cheery voice, whenever she called? The sister who’d died inside and was waiting for her body to catch up? The sister she hadn’t seen for two years (prior to the hospital visit), despite only living an hour and half away? The sister she made excuses to, whenever the subject of meeting up arose? The sister she actually didn’t really know? Instead of saying all of this, I just promised to get better. I meant what I said. Continue reading

Hello Darkness, My Old Friend: Part Three

ubi7mhny-io-stephen-di-donato.jpg

 

I was wobbly on my feet. My legs felt like jelly. I was in Intensive Care, so I figured my attempt was a near-success. I didn’t and still don’t remember what happened to me, immediately after I tried to kill myself. Bubbly nurse came back into the room and handed me a scrap of paper. There was a phone number written on it, for my local mental health crisis team. “Here’s the number the psych doctor promised you.” What a joke. Even I knew more phone numbers of organisations to call for support. And what’s more, that knowledge didn’t save me from myself. What did they think a scrap of paper, with one solitary phone number scribbled on it would do? Continue reading

Hello Darkness, My Old Friend: Part Two

woman-918780_1920

 

“I’ve been there, Caroline. I’ve been there.” My Dad repeated, his voice heavy with tears. My body felt like it was made of lead. I lifted my hand to my face. I had a breathing tube in my nose. It was tight around my face. I had canulas in both my wrists, and my left foot. The creases behind my elbows were bruised and punctured. Whoever had inserted the canulas, had obviously had a tough battle with my veins. Above my head, monitors beeped and pulsed. My left forefinger burned. I looked at it and saw that I had an oxygen monitor tightly clamped onto it. I felt naked. An ill fitting hospital gown covered the last shred of dignity I had left. Flashbacks of doctors and tubes and nurses flooded my brain. I lost consciousness again. Continue reading