literature

A Failed Attempt

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A Failed Attempt

I had been discharged from the hospital, today – my attempt at suicide hadn't gone according to plan, and the imagined consequences were slowly forming into reality. Who ever said paranoia couldn't just be high levels of intuition and anticipation? Either way, my mother and father had both witnessed the scar tissue across my arms, legs, and several other parts of my body. They had seen my half-dying state, as I lay in bed, unknowingly recovering from the overdose on a combination of migraine pills, anti-depressants and anti-anxiety pills. I had to give it to them – the fact that they hadn't strangled me there and then in the hospital cubicle was a generosity to me: they thought I was  fine. In their world, their son had no diagnosis of depression and anxiety, no migraines, no problems – in their world... he was... I was as perfect as a seventeen-year-old could be.

The walk from my sleeping arrangements, down the morose hospital corridor, to the exit was the longest walk I'd ever taken, despite the fact it was a mere hundred metres apart. My arms were covered up with long sleeves, but the bags under my eyes told it all: something had happened, something immediate and devastating. I was mulling it around in my head, and even I couldn't make sense of what had occurred. I had attempted suicide. </i>Suicide</i>. It hadn't hit me yet, it was floating just out of conscious recognition... teasing me.

Well, my parents had it hard too: the doctors and nurses were quite literally disgusted at their 'lack of attention' given to me. I tried to explain that it was all me, and I had inflicted this upon myself, for reasons they had no part in. Still, forms had to be signed, questions had to be asked, social workers had to be called... luckily they got out of it. The hospital gave them a formal letter of apology and we were on our way... God knew what lay in store for me outside the hospital doors – I knew my parents weren't going to be very sensitive to my conditions... the fact that I had evaded notice for so long, and had never even informed them of my troubles... it must've hurt. It must've. If my child had tried to kill themselves, due to a diagnosis of depression that I knew not of... I'm not sure if I could handle it myself.

I felt a pang of intense guilt wash over my stomach. My brows furrowed. The tasteless hospital food I had consumed, earlier, seemed for a moment as if it were going to materialise in front of me, after an episode of gagging and retching. I sighed, and prepared as the cold wind made me catch my breath, half-hoping, half-hating the idea, that my breath would come no more, and this unworldly guilt would cease in a singular heart beat. When that didn't come, and my feet began trudging against the solid, monotonous pavement greys, I gasped, a spring of tightly held back tears emerged upon the lining of my lids. This couldn't be happening – not to me...

To the black jaguar. Slowly fall inside. The placing of seatbelts, apathetically. And then... the wait. The wait for speech, the wait for the confidence to prick up: my mother or father had to say something soon – I had barely heard a word breech the boundaries of their lips, since awakening. In fact, upon being discharged, nothing had been said – nothing. I was beginning to feel nervous, thoughts soaring through my head: what if they disowned me? What would they do next? Would they send me somewhere? Would they tell everyone? What if they become depressed, because of me? What if, what if, what fucking if?

And there it was: “Chris...” my mothers voice cracked, pain evident in her speech. “Chris, darling, we... I... How come you never told your father and I any of this?” – the question I had been waiting for, which was oh so predictable. I supposed they deserved the answer, but wanting to tell them and being able to tell them were two separate things. “We would have listened and understood, wouldn't we?”

My father sighed, but said nothing. He even cleared his throat, in what I could only decipher as nervousness. He had never been good at advice, reassurance, or anything to that effect. When my mother had dealt with post-partum depression, he was everything but supportive, gentle, helpful... and to be fair, that could have lead the whole family into a downward spiral. I guessed it was my turn for the blame now, nonetheless – this sort of thing shouldn't have happened. Even the fact that the doctors identified the anti-depressant and anti-anxiety pills I had overdosed on, brought the whole situation tumbling down on my head... If I told my parents I 'just felt depressed', everything would've been so much easier, but no. No. The doctors told them I had been taking anti-depressants, anti-anxieties, and there was a high level of chemicals that pointed in the direction of an overdose consisting of these two types of drugs. Even the idea of suicide would've been easier to explain if they couldn't tell what I had taken... now my parents felt like they were failures. And it was all the doctor's fault. Twats...

“Chris...” my mother repeated my name, hurt and getting worse.

“Look...” I murmured, weakly – I still hadn't fully recovered from the effects of the overdose... I still felt sick and without appetite. “I didn't want to tell you because I knew this would happen... you'd ask a load of questions... I just can't do it, okay? So... can you just leave it?”

“No, we fucking well can't leave it, Chris!” My father exclaimed; I could see his features through the wing mirror: they were scrunched up into an angered frenzy, begging to break loose and hit something. His temper had always been destructive and out of control. All I wanted to do was go home, lay in my bed and cuddle up to our Westie, Jake. I missed telling him everything, when I could tell no one else. He'd been the only listener, really, dropping his ears in sympathy when I cried, pulling his ears up when I thanked him for being such a good brother. Well, he was technically a part of the family, dog or not. Either way, I looked down, ignoring my fathers outburst.

“Don't yell, Eric,” my mother commanded, sternness ejecting from her eyes, in spite of the fact she kept her vision on the road. She remained calm, but it was killing her to do so. “By the way, I have, as suggested by the doctors, gotten an appointment off a therapist. She says that you'll have an hours session once a week, for as long as it takes. It's all charges, free, because you're still in education... but do you know how much it would cost if you were older? What were you thinking, Chris?”

“If I'd been thinking, I wouldn't have done it”, I said simply. I didn't want to attend any appointment, but I was in no state to argue. Any stress could send me straight back to that uncomfortable hospital bed, with that unethical hospital food. No. I didn't want to say anything, but I wouldn't attend. I would just live.

I'd just live.
I don't think I'll continue this, because I know I'll never finish it, and there's nothing worse than an unfinished project. I know that story ALL too well. ;]

Either way, this is just an idea I've had: what happens after a failed suicide attempt? Well, I know enough people who have been through it, to know what. Even if this isn't detailed or extensively long, it's difficult to explain it. There's just so much empty tension. I hope that came through.
© 2009 - 2024 theThanatos
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unleashedtimelady's avatar
Firstly I want to say that some of the words you used were just awesome. "...that unethical hospital food". Unethical just made me smile, because it is oh so true.

Next, I think this is so well written and realistic that many people will relate to it. Why the flipping heck can't fathers be a bit more... understanding? This reminded me so much of my family, and the absolute guilt you portrayed at upsetting his parents was also incredibly real.

All in all, one of the best things I have read in a very long time. It could be continued, but it also works really well just as it is. :clap: