Suicide Kills, part 4

                                                                   Chapter Four

The next morning a woman joined us. Actually, we joined her. She’d been in the common room since four in the morning when she was brought in, ditzed out of her gourd.  When we came in, she exploded into conversation, "I was up all night on speed, so they let me stay up and clean. That’s what I do. Clean. There are worse problems to have while you’re high, you know." She looked bluntly at Veronica, daring her to confess drug-doused sex scandals and black market baby peddling.

Veronica snorted and took her seat at the table.

"I’m Marigold," the new woman said, rounding on the one woman circus known as Me. "I don’t answer to Mari, so don’t try."

Like I’d care enough to call her by a nickname… one she approved of, anyways.  I raised an eyebrow at her and let my gaze drift from her head to her feet.  I wasn’t impressed.  Shrugging, I shook my head and took my place next to Veronica.

Ike came in. I let out a slow whistle and it brought a fresh blush to his cheeks. His silver hair bounced and shined as he ambled over to the table and took a seat by my side. Guess I adopted a septuagenarian.   I hoped I wouldn’t have to water and feed him. I’m really not good at that sort of thing.

                Marigold hardly noticed, intent on telling us how rich she was, and how many trips she had been on as she meticulously scrubbed the twenty-two inch screen of the television. She tried desperately to demonstrate she was better than we, but being in a psych ward with us ruffians it didn’t succeed very well.

With nauseating bravado she laid her world flat on the table for our inspection.  Being a mother and how much she adored being pregnant, what her kids were up to now and how she had to take speed just to keep up with them.  But it was all a defensive strategy.  She was trying to disarm us in advance.  By listing her weakness herself, we could not blind side her with a comment she was not ready to hear.  I wondered what she was really hiding to feel she had to pre-empt any attack on our part.  Mari, I thought, I’ll write out a fifteen page truce for the duration of our time together if you would just shut the fuck up.

Breakfast arrived.

I damn near stood up and cheered, thankful Marigold had a reason to put her mouth to another use.

Once the smell of the food hit my nose, my stomach spun like pottery and just as heavy. I weighed the rubbery eggs, bland bacon, and large crouton they had the mad audacity to call toast along with constipation as a side effect.  It just wasn't worth it. Sighing, I shoved the plate away.

"So, why are you here?", an unwelcome voice demanded.

"Oh, I’m sorry. Is this group time?" I answered, annoyed.

Marigolds’ face darkened, "I told you why I was here."

"Yep, ya did. But it’s mostly bullshit, so I figure that little confession doesn’t warrant an exchange. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to 'share'." I turned my head back towards Jerrilyn and Veronica. Veronica was smirking and Jerrilyn was silently shaking with laughter, egg skewered on the end of her plastic fork. Maria Rosa chuckled.

"So, when do we go outside?"
"When Bulk Hogan gets off his ass and decides to take us out." I told her.

"Now, Brittni, that’s not true, you silly woman. The outside schedule is 1:00 in the afternoon, Marigold. Every day." Debra’s troll powers had suddenly materialized her in the doorway. She must have been listening just outside of the door, because I hadn’t heard the telltale sound of nylon-encased thighs upon her approach. We should really fit her with a bell, I thought. The idea of her listening outside of the hall was just, well, creepy.

"Yeah, right, Debra. Yesterday we didn’t go out until three." Veronica said.

"Veronica, if you start acting belligerent we’ll be forced to send you to the closest psychiatric institution. I really don’t want to do that, so please don’t raise your voice at me." Debra told her loudly and crossed the room to the window to adjust the blinds and curtains.

I furrowed my brow, my upper lip twitching in a slight snarl.  Um, yeah, I do do the snarl, like Elvis or Ice Cube, only my version is not sexy.  I just look constipated, but it would’ve confused you if I wrote, ‘I furrowed my brow, my upper lip curled in a look of constipation…’   I’m working on it.  That’s all you need to know.  Back to Debra being a bitch. 

Veronica had not raised her voice.  Beside me, she simply glowered at the Debra, looking like she wanted to argue but couldn’t.

"Debra, what’s the deal?" Marigold asked, her ego on hold while she displayed a little humanity.  Well, whoop dee fucking do, she deserves a sticker.

"Mrs. Ybanez, this does not concern you," was the only response from the Stirrup Troll.  Never once looking at any of the patients, she fussed over the curtains for a few more minutes before swishing out of the room in day-glo, lizard printed stirrup pants, presumably to attack Tokyo.  

Veronica’s lower lip threatened to return the stale bread to its natural state with soon-to-be flooding tears.  I shot at look at Marigold, afraid she would say something smart assed, but she met my eyes with an expression of understanding.  Truce, for now. 

A spider like fluttering on my arm snapped my attention away for a moment, thrusting me into insect assassin mode.  Instead, I met Ike’s eyes.  Dangling from his liver-spotted hands was my bandana, clean and still cool from drying. He nodded over in Veronica’s direction and shook the bandana for me to take it. I tugged it free and squeezed his thumb.  Twisting back around, I gave it to Veronica to wipe her eyes.

"Fuck her." Marigold said. "Don’t let that shit get to you."

Veronica’s shoulders began to shake.  Small at first, an inner rumbling, the shaking grew and spread along her form like fractures along a quake line.  As her shoulders convulsed, her hands trembled, her knees shook, and tears spilled down her cheeks.  She refused to meet our eyes as she wiped her face. Creamy make-up yielded to the square cloth, revealing a mottled red cheek.

"That’s why she does it. Es que, she know Veronica is bi-polar and, como se dice? Paranoia, tambien." Maria Rosa, her voice normally so soothing, had a tone to her words which surprised me—disgust.  She rose from her seat and walked over to rub Veronica’s shoulders.  Her gaze strayed to the door, as though worried Debra would come back for a second helping.

"She’s a bi-polar paranoid schizophrenic." Jerrilyn said, glancing at Marigold and I.

"Gesundheit." I said, dryly. Did I mention I suck in awkward moments?  Well, now you know.

The corners of Jerrilyn’s mouth lifted slightly in a partial smile, though it was simply to indulge me.  My heart grew three sizes—actually, no, it didn’t, but I did feel closer to her for ignoring my ineptitude in such moments. 

Jerrilyn stroked Veronica’s neck. "Debra knows it, and she needles her. Nothing big, just enough to make her cry, make her paranoid, make her like this."

The words sank in, and an anger swiftly stoked itself within me. What type of person would even do that?

Jerrilyn withdrew her hand and put her finger to her lips, delicately nibbling on the tips. I wondered why I hadn’t noticed that before, and reached out to extricate her mangled finger. She had chewed the top layer of skin off of her index finger. She shot me a thankful glance, and began gnawing on her fingernail, instead.  Well, at least she wouldn't strike bone, soon.

Marigold dropped into a chair like a ton of bricks, all of the fight and sass in her forgotten. There seemed nothing to say, no words that could find the moment and warm it.

Silence dripped into the room in surprising puddles, amplifying Veronica’s ragged breathing, Maria Rosa’s humming, Jerrilyn’s fingernail chewing, Marigold’s agitated knee-bouncing, Ike’s stillness, and my speechlessness.

A hiccup-burp combo broke the air and Veronica looked up, embarrassed. I smiled. Marigold smirked. Ike chuckled to himself. Jerrilyn stopped shredding her nails. Maria Rosa patted Veronica on the back, and we got back to our breakfast.

Suicide Kills, part 3

                                                         Chapter Three

An hour later, my tears had relinquished their fury leaving an oddly peaceful empty feeling. I stared out the window at the darkening clouds. God had a sense of humor locking me up in here with horny making weather about to come down. Wait. I didn't have a boyfriend, anymore. Shit, I'd just made myself feel bad.  I should just stop thinking all around.

"Brittni? May I come in?"

I swung around to face the voice. Jerrilyn was either the most naive person on the planet, or this wasn't her first kegger. She stood in the doorway holding a tray of food. "We’re not supposed to have these in our room, but Aaron made an exception for you tonight. You hungry? Can you eat?"

Anger flared, but I held it back. Her kindness shamed me, and I did not like that one bit. If I was honest, I knew who deserved my ire the most, though.

My list went:
1. Osama bin Laden
2. Me
3. Kylie Minogue (Hey, it was the beginning of 2002. Get off my nipples. That god damn 'Can't get you out of my head' song was stuck in my mind for six months straight.)

Jerrilyn wasn't on my list. I motioned her inside.

Smiling tentatively, she walked into the room to the set the tray on a stand. "I’m also not supposed to be in your room. Aaron made an exception for that, too."

She had arranged it. All of it. For me. But why? Surely, I’d proven to her the cruelty I was capable of.  Yet, here she was.

"I…I’m…Damn, Jerrilyn, I’m really sorry." The words were out of my mouth before I even figured out how to say them.  The uncertain smile on her face was replaced with a new one. Friendship.

"I lashed out at everyone, too, the first time I came here. I was miserable, so I figured everybody else should be, too. Figured they deserved it." She picked up an apple and tossed it at me. "I know I got problems. For fucks sake, that’s why I’m here. The only person I got to blame is me. And maybe genetics. It sounds corny as hell, but it really does get better. And what makes that true is you’re here, and it damn sure can’t get any worse. Can it? Go ahead on. Eat. Then come find us in common room."

On impulse, I grabbed her hand before she made it to the door and tried to swallow the lump in my throat.  Shutting my eyes, I wrapped my arms around her back and mumbled, "Thank you. Really."

It felt good to hold somebody, to be held, to feel substantive and seen. For a second, she stroked my hair, whispering, "You’re welcome,” then left.

Some time later, a voice like a slow-swung cowbell announced, "Lights out in one hour." I hurriedly gathered my tray and took it down the hall, depositing it on a caddy as I passed on my way to the common room.

Veronica, Jerrilyn, and Maria Rosa sat on the couch talking animatedly. The three fell quiet as I darkened the door. 

Jerrilyn wasn‘t the only one I had hurt earlier, but I did not want to apologize, again. I wasn’t sure I knew how. Always having to be the one who fixes everything had left me at a loss on how to be the one who admits error. Could they understand?

Veronica smiled, moved over to make a spot, and asked, "So, you gonna plant your ass down here, Midget, or what? We only have an hour left to gossip. Better make it quick."

Relief flooded me.  After the way I treated Veronica earlier, I didn’t even care if she called me Midget.  Hell, at four feet eleven inches I was one inch too tall to be one (cut off point is four feet ten inches for the vertically lacking), so it’s not that far off the mark to begin with.  One look at Jerrilyn and I saw she had taken care of the apology for me, but her eyes were clear. Next time, it’d be my own responsibility.

"Well? Whaddaya say?" She prompted, winking at me.

A grin tugged at my lips. I entered the room to stand next to the couch. "So, we get another smoke break, or what? There’s a stuffy linebacker that needs torturing. Y’all game?"

All three nodded.

"Oh, Aaron! It’s time for you to monitor the crazies from an undersized chair! Get the lead out, big guy! We need our nicotine!"

His breathy curse from the hallway outside the common room was all the encouragement we needed.  We each whipped out our cigarettes merrily, and trotted down the hall behind the cussing orderly.

When we walked inside, I noticed a tiny old man in the corner. His hair was so filthy that the grease made the hair shaft stand up and cling to itself, looking like he had thousands of antennae on his head. He sat slumping forward, shoulders sagging as though the weight of his dirty white t-shirt was too much to bear, the hand holding the Camel cigarette visibly shaking. It almost hurt to look at him, but I had no clue who he was.

I looked at Veronica and Jerrilyn questioningly. Veronica made the crazy gesture by her head (which I thought was hilarious) and Jerrilyn shrugged.  Maria Rosa simply patted my arm and said, "Mi ija, he don’t speak. He has’no said eh word since he got here three days ago."

I stood, watching him. My heart ached in his proximity. He seemed… lost.

Sensing my stare, he raised iridescent, tear-filled brown eyes to me then looked away as though he felt un-worthy of meeting someone‘s gaze. A single drop of shame fell to the floor by his dirt-streaked sneaker.

I reached into my pocket and got out the bandana I always carried to tie my hair back.  Slowly, because the last thing I wanted to do was run up full speed on a Crazy, I made my way across the room to sit in a chair, closer to this quiet man with the shaking hands.

Maria Rosa sat on my other side and patted my leg lovingly, then went back to the conversation Veronica and Jerrilyn were having.

Confident he would talk to me, because, well, I was me and I was nineteen, I asked him, "what’s your name?"

Silence.

"How old are you?"

He continued to stare at the floor.

"I think I have an extra deodorant. Want it? You’ll smell like a chick, but then again, this is a hen house." I said, determined to at least make him smile or strangle me.  Either would indicate success in my book.

"Okay. I’m Brittni. I’ll be here when you want to tell me. Here." I handed him the bandana, and started to turn towards the other women. One word stopped me.

"Ike."

I was thrilled. Knowing he responded deepened my protective feeling over him. I considered hugging him, dustbin camouflage and all, but I wasn't quite that excited.

Instead, I patted his knee as Maria Rosa had done to me. "Hi, Ike. It’s nice to meet you."

He moved his head a fraction of an inch to stare at my hand, then raised surprised eyes to mine, as though he were afraid I wasn’t real.

"It’s nice to meet you. Too." Ike finally said. He sighed into himself and wiped his eyes and face clean. His shoulders relaxed and the tremor in his hands lessoned. For all the world, he looked relieved. It made me want to help him.

But first things first. Ike, old buddy, old pal, you are r-i-p-e!

A layer of grime now mucked up my bandana in supporting evidence. I tried not to grimace. He couldn't keep this up, no matter how depressed he was. And, for certain, I knew the rest of us would not be able to stand an entire week of the Exciting Odors of Ike.

"Ike, you really need to take a shower and wash your hair, okay? It will make you feel better. Will you do that for me?" I kept my gaze on him, unwavering, until he responded.

A little embarrassed, he studied my bandana and nodded, then tucked it into his pocket and smiled shyly. He didn’t look down for the rest of the break.

Suicide Kills, part 2

                                                     Chapter Two

 The smoking room lived up to its name.  It was fifteen feet long, six feet wide and full of cancer smog.  The doorway was in the left corner of the room.  An orderly sat directly by it, just a few feet from me.  A large round table was in the center of the right side of the room.  Chairs lined the walls on both sides. Counting at least twenty places to sit, I raised my eyebrows; just how many shitbats did they have in this place? 

"C’mon, Aaron. You can take us out for a little bit, can’t you?" a pretty, spikey-haired blond was asking as I took a step into the room.  She sat at the back of the room behind the round table, dressed in sleeping pants and a tank top.   Large blue eyes darted over to me, crinkling at the edges.  She had pale skin with a slight touch of honey, and looked as though she’d had a good tan that faded.  Her faces was diamond shaped - wide at the cheekbones and narrow at the jaw line - with a cotton candy smile, the kind sweeter than sugar and delicate under pressure. 

Next to her was a brunette sporting a Berenstain haircut, thick makeup buttered on her hopeful face.  Jesus, I thought, I’ve seen drag queens in Vegas with less spackle.  With narrow, deeply-set eyes and little chin, the most prominent feature were the voluminous cheeks which gave her a chipmunk-like appearance.  A shy, teasing smile hung around the corner of her full mouth. 

"What could it hurt?" Hue Paul purred, scratching somewhere beneath the mound of hair she had frozen in place. She cocked her head to the side and I watched, fascinated. Not one single hair moved. Somebody should really call the EPA. I mean, that can’t be good for the ozone and baby seals and stuff.

"Yah, Aaron, what would it hurt?" the spikey blond reiterated.

I looked at the linebacker-sized orderly sitting by the door.  Honestly, the chair he sat in would have been small for me, and I’m under five feet.  Good thing we were in a hospital. I was pretty sure he needed to have it surgically removed every time he stood up.

Aaron had a wide face, deep-set eyes, small mouth, and a miniature butt in the middle of his rectangular jaw.  His hair was cropped short and flattened downward along his forehead. 

I wrinkled my nose.  Holy Mary Shelley, he was sportin’ the Clooney, the hairstyle which got its

start in Hollywood through Frankenstein and has been ruining foreheads ever since. 

               Letting out an exasperated sigh, Aaron looked up from his book and spoke slowly. "You know the rules. We were outside earlier, and we only go once a day."

"Were you born without any personality, or do you do that just for our benefit?" Blondie asked, and winked in my direction.

Aaron ignored her and went back to the little book in his large hands.

 I squinted, struggling to read the author’s name.  Danielle Steele?  On my list of never-guesses this was a solid five, maybe even a three. For a second I was surprised, then decided not to be.  I mean, who were we going to tell? Sylvester Stallone? Get his man-card revoked?  Not likely. 

"What’s your name?" It took me a moment to realize Blondie directed the question to me.

A chair scuttled out from under the table for me to sit in and the Mary-Kay fanatic motioned me over, sliding back up in her chair.

An elderly Hispanic woman sitting in front of the table pulled the chair out further and motioned me over.  She had a round head, thinning hair, kind eyes, and an easy smile.  The faded red sweater with saucer size yellow dots simply completed the look.  The overall image made her resemble a ladybug. Reluctantly, I took the seat and made all three women wait until I’d lit my cigarette. 

“Brittni.”

"I’m Jerrilyn.” The blond said, splaying her hand across her chest.  With her cigarette between two fingers, she pointed to the young woman at her side then the older woman next to me. “This is Veronica and Maria Rosa." She fell quiet, waiting for me to make the next move and watching with cool eyes.

She could just wait.

I sucked on the cigarette, enjoying the ashy taste of the only thing left of my reality. Cheesy?  Hell yes, but I was in a psych ward.  I certainly had the right to depressingly wax poetic.  Weren't some of the best poets dead when they got famous?  Yeppers, because most people will listen to whining longer when they know how long the whining lasts.  Pricks, taking the easy way out by dying. 

"How often…?" I began, letting the question trail off and wiggling my cigarette.

"As often as we want, as long as there are two or more people wanting one." Veronica nodded towards Aaron, "Supervised, of course. Lighters, ya know."

I didn’t tell her what a lighter could do to her hairspray helmet.

"What all do we do here?" I took another long drag on my cigarette and cocked my head to the side, directing the question at all three women.

Jerrilyn grinned, "We talk about our problems, and they have classes each morning for us to go to. Dr. Rathbone, that’s the shrink, comes at night to do one-on-one’s with us. Why are you here? What’d you do? Or, more importantly, what’d you do it with?"

"Pills." I am now the Queen of Monosyllabia! Tremble, fools!

Veronica tugged on her long sleeves, a quick mindless jerk which told me she did it so often she probably didn’t realize it anymore.  Must be a cutter.  I wondered what number suicide attempt pills had been for her.

Depressing thought, considering that’s how I got here. 

Jerrilyn sucked her teeth, trying to determine if she liked me or not. "I’m depressed. Veronica self-mutilates. Maria Rosa lost her grandson. Besides all of that, we’re completely normal, wouldn’t you say, Veronica?"

Aaron snorted.

Veronica shook her head and said, "I’m as normal as they let me be." Following my gaze, she hid her arms beneath the table.  

Jerrilyn touched her shoulder, "We don’t care, Ronni. Quit worrying about the scars.  So, how long are you here for?"

Oh, goody, back to me.  "I don’t know. Until the doctor says otherwise, I guess."

"Do you have a boyfriend?" an evil glint sparked in Jerrilyn’s eyes.  I got the distinct feeling we were going to talk about sex and penises before I was released.  She put her cigarette out and began rubbing her knuckles. 

"I did, but he turned out to be an asshole. Left when I needed him the most. He was sensitive that way." I should have flipped him off instead of sticking my tongue out at his back, but then he‘d probably have thought I was hitting on him.

"All men are assholes. You just gotta find the one with the fewest hemorrhoids." Jerrilyn fixed me with a grin.

Veronica stopped fidgeting with her sleeves and smiled.

Maria Rosa shook her head at Jerrilyn good-naturedly. 

I chuckled.

Maybe this place wouldn’t be absolute hell, after all.

Back in the common room in front of the T.V., Jerrilyn and Veronica filled me in about the ward. From Aaron the apathetic orderly, to the nurses who were a step away from unprofessional, by-the-book Rathbone who couldn’t help a soul because he lacked the ability to think outside of his textbooks, and the shining light of their day-the trip outside… geez. And this is supposed to help us?

"You have kids, though, right?"

My question startled Veronica right out of what she was saying. Her hands froze in midair and she looked at me like a deer caught in blinding light, waiting to be wet confetti all over the road.

"Yes." She didn’t elaborate, but I zeroed in for the kill.

"Two, right? Neither of them infant-infants, though. Right?" My tone sank deeper and I watched her squirm. Her eyes ran deep into the forest of memories and picked one, then climbed it. For the next several minutes she clung to it, refusing to climb down, eyes dull and fixed on a place upon the floor. I could tell it was a sort of punishment for her, reliving bad memories.  It was what she thought she deserved. 

A part of me bucked against the cruelty, but I fought the need to apologize.  I wasn’t going to play nice simply because I was under a psychiatric thumb; if anything, I would play much, much harder.

Jerrilyn’s expression hardened. She looked straight at me, daring an attack.

"And you, " since she expected it, I’d let her have it, "you have a boyfriend. Long-term, right? Gotten used to, and even annoyed with, your little psychiatric tantrums, hasn’t he?"

Stunned, she opened and shut her mouth, then spat an affirmation through gritted teeth. Her blue irises grew bright and wounded.  Tears trickled from the corner of her eyes.  "Why would you say something like that?"

I expected her question, was even ready for it, but when I opened my mouth to answer I found my voice gone.  I liked Jerrilyn, I really did.  How could I tell her I had done it because I was trying to hurt her?  God, now even I thought I was a bitch.

"She’s doing it because she’s hurting, aren’t you, mija?" Maria Rosa’s voice cut through the silence to be absorbed immediately like a gently placed bomb. "So, she eh trying to hurt everybody else, tambien."

Tears sprung to my eyes, and I shot a look at Maria Rosa, ready to deny her soft accusation.  All I found in her time-worn face was sympathy, understanding.

The room became suffocating.

"I’m sorry," I mumbled. I jumped to my feet and  raced out, trying to flee from another failure, another painful memory I had just forced myself to create. And alone on my bed, I wept.

Suicides Kills, unless you suck at it. Then it's just embarassing

Prologue-

I hated the small hours, the pit of early morning where time stands still if you are an insomniac.  My eyes wandered around my bedroom, the desperation for something different to look at making me want to run outside, to jump from my window, or just do something…anything.  Unfortunately, the night had been no different from any other. 
I could watch Burly TV until exhaustion overtook me or I could take some pills and force myself to sleep.  The nightly menu did not vary, not for me.  The medication for migraines and depression stood along my headboard, mounted like tiny soldiers in orange and white.  Staring at each bottle in turn, I began to rock front to back, front to back, front to-

A memory barged in and suddenly I was a fourth grader, sitting on the floor of the school counselor’s office for running across the gravel.   Getting in trouble was something I wasn’t in the habit of at that age, and I had been scared.  Without realizing it, I had begun to rock as I waited. 

When the counselor entered the room, she stopped immediately and asked, “Why are you on the floor?  Why are you rocking like that?  Brittni, don’t you know that’s a sign of being crazy?”

A decade later the words came back to me.  Don’t you know that’s a sign of being crazy? 

Lady, you just might have been on to something.  I stopped rocking, reached out and picked up a bottle.  Cheers, bitch.

                                                            By Brittni Hill

I stuck my tongue out at his back as he left the room.  Go to Hell, I thought, rolling over onto my side.  Nurses, doctors, and family had bustled in and out all morning, a fact I hated.  I was stuck - pissed off at the whole world - and could do nothing about it. 

The legal representative came back in and cleared his throat.  He had come in earlier, but I had no decision for him then, either.  Overdressed, underprepared, and clearly ill at ease on the psychiatric floor he had stumbled through the legal consequences I faced for trying to off myself.  Apparently a very ominous ‘we’ was ‘seriously concerned’ with my mental stability.  Well, hell, so am I.  I didn’t exactly get here by taxi, Watson.  He had also explained the hospital recommended my admittance to the psychiatric ward a floor above and left me to think about it.   Now, he was back for the answer.  When I refused to turn over, he walked around to the window to face me.  "So, have you made a decision?"

I cut my eyes toward him in a glare.  A gold plated nametag glinted under the light by my bed, but I did not bother to read it.   Not even thirty, he already had a crop of doll hair planted shabbily in his scalp.  His chin looked like it was in the middle of running away from his bottom lip.  When I raised my gaze, he closed his eyes, popped his neck and pretended to study his clipboard.  When he started to go over admittance again, I tuned out and thought about what I now faced. 

A psychiatric ward? Would the people be eating checkers and playing with shit? Banging their heads against the wall?  Opportunistic lunatics drawing penises on the forehead of the catatonics? Actually, that sounds kind of fun. 
The last one.  The first three…eww and gross and ouch.

Changing tactics, he began asking questions.  “On a scale of one to ten, how depressed would you say you are?”

I snickered.  I had just tried to commit suicide. Richard Simmons, I am not.

"Listen, Brittni, you may go of your own volition or a judge will order it…"

"Wait, so I can volunteer, or I can be sent, correct? But I’m going no matter what, aren’t I?"

Startled at my response he licked his lips, choked himself with his tie and nodded. 

“Seems pointless, doesn’t it? Calling it voluntary?”

The legal rep grinned like he was secretly passing gas and nodded, again.

So, there it was.  I could admit myself or the system would do it for me.  Damn, and that wasn’t part of my five year plan until after completing college.  Back against the proverbial wall, I fixed him with a serious look and raised my eyebrow.  “Can I smoke, at least?”

“Yes,” he cleared his throat, “yes. Uh…smoking is allowed.  Lighters and matches are not.”

I sighed. "All right.  Let’s get this over with."  After being given a thirty minute time limit to return under, my mother and father took me back to my apartment so I could pack a small bag and got me a Whopper from Burger King.  I ate it quickly in the hospital parking lot, then the three of us went inside and rode up the insultingly normal elevators to the sixth floor psychiatric ward.  My mom patted my back, synchronizing the brief touch of her hand with the dinging of each floor we passed.  My father held his cowboy hat in one hand, thumb tucked into a pocket, and gripped the inside railing with his other.  None of us said a word, just watched the lighted numbers above the doors counting upward.  At the sixth floor, Mom stopped patting my back and smiled sadly.  I looked away to see my father had already picked up my bag and started out into the small reception area. 

I stopped him.  This wasn't my first day in kindergarten.  Besides, the other patients might see, and then I’d have to find the biggest, meanest motha in the yard and take her out.  Wait, that’s prison.  Wrong institution. 
Crazy people just eat weird shit like hair and occasionally masturbate in public places, right? 

Even at a distance, I could see the Authorized Personnel Only sign emblazoned across the entrance to the ward in blocky black lettering.  On the other side was a world I wanted no part of, but my actions had left me with no choice.  I asked my parents to stay at the elevator, took my bag and went on my own down the corridor.  Luckily, I got no arguments, just a huge and a kiss from each.  Such a simple goodbye…way too simple and sincere for one of the ugliest situations I had ever put myself in.  They really did love me, no matter what.  And Jesu Christo had I abused the what in that statement.  I tried to smother the thought as I walked away, but the ornery little fucker wouldn’t die, just kept bumping the back of my brain harder with each step I took. 

Shoulder high on the right side wall was an enormous square button.  As I got closer, I could read the words ‘Push For Entrance’ written in red.  With a deep breath, I slapped my palm against it and waited to be admitted. 

Heavy doors stood before me, doors that screamed No Entrance Sans Password!

Password?  Barkin’ looney

Access granted, me.

For a second, I considered running for the nearest emergency exit.  Crossing the threshold would make me something different, something irrevocable.  I wasn’t like these people, but nobody would think so once I entered.  One foot in the ward and I would no longer be myself;  I could just hear the gossip hounds-

You know what?  Screw the gossip hounds.  The flapping chatties ran their mouths when I grew breasts, ran their mouths when I was fourteen just to be assholes, and continued to do so until graduation. 

The gossip hounds could get off my nipples. 

I had a lot more juicy details about them than they had on me, anyways.  Teachers, medical personnel, business owners, secretaries, neighbors…the truly funny thing is had I done what those individuals did and simply cheated on a spouse I could have lived it down in a matter of months. 

Not so with crazy. 

Infidelity is frowned upon in small towns, but never openly condemned.  Half the time the ones frowning have been hitting the side skins, too.  Gossip was often just a reminder of the sins grapevine members all had in common, but struggled to hide.  Each person fell off the grapevine when they were the subject and got back on it when they weren’t. 

Well, hell, having been the subject so much, might as well make the Hall of Fame, right?  I stepped into the ward.

Welcome to the crazy side of the hospital. On the left we have the dining and entertainment area.  We have quite a few guests at the moment.  You’ll notice they are all women, since women dial in crazy more often than men do.  Just up ahead is the nurses’ station where you will meet the attendants for the duration of your stay.  If you’ll just walk this way-

"Oh my goodness! You must be Brittni." Such a cheerful voice could only belong to Satan himself, or a chubby woman named Debra who had a fetish for vintage 80’s stirrup pants. 

Short, though still taller than me, Debra had a doughy, rectangular frame her keen fashion sense drew more attention to.  A blue headband rested an inch behind her hairline, and the back of her hair flipped out in a style reminiscent of Betty Rubble.  She wore little makeup other than a nuclear pink shade of lipstick and a dull purple blush which clashed horribly with her floral patterned stirrup pants and red scrub top.  I struggled not to ask where she bought clothes or got her makeup.  I mean, if the sales associates let her walk out of the store like this…who the hell were they being honest with? 

Debra smiled and handed me a zip lock bag, saying, "Okay, Brittni, it’s nice to meet you. Now, you’re going to put all of your jewelry and anything you have in your pockets inside this baggy. You’ll get it all back when you leave. Now, you just scoot that little hiney over to those chairs while I get you all set up, okay?"

I blinked, unmoving.  She pushed against my side with the back of her hand and repeated, “Scoot.”

The Debra must die. I absolutely hate to be told to scoot.

Realizing it was more of a command and less of a question, and Debra had big orderlies and I did not, I took the bag and stepped away and obediently took off all of my jewelry-- while taking my sweet-ass time, of course.  Back behind the nurses station, Debra cleared her throat. 

I smiled and gave her a crooked nod as I pretended to check for nipple rings. 

Debra waddled out of the nurses’ station and rested her arm on top of the counter.  She curled her hand into a fist and lightly punched her hip where it remained velcroed to her side. Her eyes narrowed in a glare above her wide, one-size-fits-all smile.

And they think I’m fuckin’ crazy? 

In my head the theme song from The Good, The Bad, and the Ugly began to play. I smirked at her.  I probably could have taken her, but I was pretty sure she had some hefty narcotics of the liquid kind in the nurses’ station; you know, not the kind you remember having had the next day, so it would be no fun getting stabbed in the butt with one.

“Here ya go.” Handing back the items back, I sat down a few feet away and dropped my bag next to the chair.

Satisfied, Debra trotted back around the counter. Pointedly ignoring me, she made a big show of rustling papers, twisting her mouth into various expressions I can only guess were meant to make it seem like she was thinking.  This little Up the Anty game of ours was going to get interesting before this week was over.  An hour later, she finally came out of the nurses’ lair with a clipboard and gestured for me to follow.

I grabbed my bag and stood only to walk into a claustrophobia-inspiring room next to the nurse’s station holding a scale. Before my brain could say shut up, my mouth said, "Call me crazy, but weighing suicidal whack jobs just seems like adding insult to instability."

Debra wheeled on me with Chihuahua-like abandon, "Our patients are not crazy, and they’re not whack jobs. They’re normal people, just like you or I. And they deserve to be treated as such."

Whatever you say, lady, but one of us gets to go home at night, while the other has to stay behind locked doors that tell people on the other side to Keep Out.  So, just which one of us does that make not all right?

I caught sight of the hideous, floral-printed stirrup pants.  Oh, right. Stupid question.

The Stirrup Troll set to her task, weighing me quickly and jotting down notes.  How many notes you can take about my ass I do not know, but she filled out at least a page.  Once done, she flashed another of her fake smiles and herded me out of the humility closet.

“Your room is on the left, three doors down. I need you to open your bag, so I can look through it all. You’ll meet everyone soon after, ‘cuz it’s almost dinner time and they’ll all be heading into the dining area shortly."

"So, what’s next? You need to check my tampons to see if I soaked them in alcohol?" I asked as we walked to the resident’s rooms, which is my version of being conversational.

The Debra was not amused.  Her narrowed eyes told me my bag was going to get the mother of all cavity searches. I mentally complimented myself for choosing one with so many pockets. Search and seize to your heart’s content, heffa. Just don’t touch my faux-velour, bright red, lil' devil pajamas. You really will see crazy, then.

Yeah, I don't know why I brought them, either. It's not like it's a great place for potential romance.  In fact, I cannot think of a worse place.  Might as well walk up with your address handy and a letter of permission for the psycho to stab and kill you in your sleep. Then again, my mother had set me up with a suicidal pyromaniac pussy the year before, so hey, there just might be an upgrade walking around in here. Never know.

I mentally scanned over everything I had in the bag. I could remember nothing which might warrant removal, but who knew what was permissible to do or have in a psychiatric ward?

Debra made quick work of my belongings, setting aside my medicine, bobby pins (how the hell those get in there?) and razor.  Damn, no sharp objects.  Now, I’ll have to make a shiv out of a toothbrush.

Wait, that’s prison again.

"You might want these,” Debra said and handed me my cigarettes.  I had not even noticed her take the pack out of the baggy holding my jewelry.

"Everyone is about to have a smoke break before eating.   The smoke room is passed the nurses’ station and elevator, straight down this hall.  Feel free to go in with them. You might want this." She told me in a dismissive tone, tossing a lighter towards me.

We can’t have razors, but we can have lighters. Yeah, that makes sense. Self-immolation is so last season. Cigarettes in hand, I headed for the door. If she wanted to paw through my panties and jogging pants, she was welcome to it. It’d be the most action they’d gotten since…well, let’s not talk about that.

"Put the lighter in the basket at the nurses’ station when you’re done.  You get fifteen minutes." She called over her shoulder, her back to me as she held up a shirt and shook it.  Finding no contraband or other illegal or inadvisable objects for a psych ward, the top crumpled as it dropped onto the bed.  I left before she could touch the pajamas.  It was just better for both of us that way. 

Suicide, reality ain't what the brochure said it would be

Kids, teens, collegiates, whatever, have been killing themselves left and right.  Technology has become an enabler, helping those on the edge dive off of it.  There are groups - G-R-O-U-P-S - for people who want to kill themselves online.  These places have recommendations for how to go about it. 

Now, chubchub, do you really want to spend your last three days getting to know a bunch of pussies?  

Oh, that got your attention, didn't it?

Yes, I just said people who commit suicide are pussies.  Back up off my nipples.  This is about to get good.  

Before I continue, I have to say to friends and family who sloshed into the pit with me during that time --I love you.  Turn back from this blog.  You should not have to go through this twice and I'm not asking you to take this journey with me, again.  You were there when it counted and I love all of you for it.  Now, it's time for me to do my part and pass the buck. 

There are pro-suicide groups popping up everywhere. The insanely funny thing is, someone will come along and post about wanting to commit suicide. And people will respond en masse about just the way to do it.

Maybe I’m missing something, here. If anybody is alive to give advice on suicide, didn’t they either A) fuckin’ fail or B) not go through with it to begin with?

So why the hell take advice from a wanna-be? Listen to me, the has-been.  I know what the hell I'm talking about, here.  It's not glamorous or goth or emo.  The reality of suicide isn't what the brochure said it would be.  It's raw and tortured for loved ones who suffer the loss, like an exposed nerve which never heals. 

Why would anybody want to get advice from somebody who pussed out in the last minutes, and then proceeded to vicariously die through others on some shitty suicide site?

Some of these places are even clubs.  SUICIDE clubs.  I mean, I know most clubs have life-time memberships, but this is a really sleazy way to maintain that.

What about paying dues? Okay, they pay the first years dues, but if they’re alive to pay the second years doesn’t that make 'em a hypocrite?
Shouldn’t they have offed themself by now?

Oh, I get it. They don’t really want to off 'emself. They just want to be emo and whine about how cruel life is, in addition to discussing the ways they can (WILL!) kill themselves while imagining the pain and horror family and friends experience.  Someone's an attention whore. 

Let's knock down this fourth wall and go head to head, former suicide to future suicide.  Does it get you all weepy fantasizing about your own funeral? How people will realize what a great person you were, and how they should have appreciated you while you were still here?

Why the hell aren't you giving them a chance to?  If you deserve peace, doesn't your family at least deserve the opportunity to speak theirs?

For the rest of y'all who are talented enough to be unaware this far into my blog, almost a decade ago I tried to commit suicide.    

I didn't twitter it live.  I didn't pound out blogs about my despair.  I wasn't bullied online.  I shut myself off, locked myself in my room for months, and early one morning I took a bunch of pills. 

This next part kills me and I hate talking about it, but if you or someone you know is considering suicide, you need to hear this. 

I was hiding in the dark and shooting every individual down who tried to bring me into the light, just like I always did.  The suicide was an attempt to kill my body, and after failing, the venom became an attempt to kill my soul, to keep me from caring anymore.  It wouldn't matter if I hurt others if I just didn't care about it.  But it did matter.  Oh, not in the hold-your-tongue-and-never-cuss kind of way, because I sure as shit did not plan on quitting cussing or speaking my mind, but I had to learn to let others help me, to let them hold me and warm me and love me instead of rejecting them because I did not feel worthy of such devotion, of such compassion. 

My mind dances and leaps and hides every time I try to think about this, but this is the truth.  It took me ALMOST A DECADE to write about this, which is how deeply it affected me.  For years I said I didn't remember the morning I took the pills clearly, but that wasn't true...not entirely.  I could remember, I just never could bring myself to try.  So, the memory stayed tucked away in pristine, painful condition.  Until this last year. 

What is it I ran from?  The call to my parents the morning I overdosed. 

“Mom?  I just…I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.” 

“Baby?  What’s wrong?”  Alarmed, she’d come fully awake. 

“I’m so tired.  Just going to sleep.  I wanted to say I love you.” My words were slow and thick, difficult to expel.  I had things to say, but suddenly could not say them. A lump in my throat swelled and I swallowed desperately, trying to make these last moments count. 

“Where’s *Jennifer?  Brittni, Brittni!  Get *Jennifer!  We’re coming!  Mike, talk to her!” She screamed, begging me to get my roommate.  The anguish in her voice was like a butter dipped razor, slicing through me to bone. 

No, I thought, my body slowing and my mouth feeling as though it were stuffed with wool, it was a mistake.  Not at this price, not for them…They don’t deserve to pay this. 

My father got on the phone, broken some place where only I had been able to reach.  “No, baby, no.  Please, just…stay with me.  God, baby, stay with me…please….Don’t do this.  You didn’t have to do this…Please, baby…” 

My third time talking about this, there are tears in my eyes even now.  You think your life is miserable?  You think your pain warrants an easy way out?  Don't believe the bullshit.  Suicide IS an easy way out but only FOR YOU, because the mess you leave behind is devastating.  YOU'RE the only person who's getting what they want in this equation.  Everyone else is losing someone they love, and not only that, they're doing it by having conversations like the one I had with my own parents, only when they reach you there are no second chances like there was for me. 

I have a unique perspective, here.  I saw what my suicide did.  And in essence, I succeeded.  I committed suicide and I emotionally scarred everyone I love.  My parents, my best friends, my grandmother...every one of them had to deal with my death.  My grandmother is always feisty, always ready with a tough or harsh word so you know what she thinks of any situation, no matter what it is.  Do you know what she did early that morning, as the sun rose while I lay in critical condition in the ICU?  She WEPT.  No words, no sarcasm, not even a 'what the hell were you thinking?'.  She simply wept. 

My Granni Boi, I am so sorry for putting you through that and I am so grateful for your patience with me.  

This isn't easy, but that's why I'm doing it.  I know what the temptation of death tastes like.  'Everything would be so much better if I weren't here.  People would be happier, I wouldn't be holding others back, and all of this pain would end.  I wouldn't have to explain anymore.  Everything would just...stop.'  

Suicide is selfish because it's the end for you, but only the beginning for everybody you love-- the beginning of their pain, the very thing you want to kill yourself to take yourself out of.  You're inflicting this on your brother, your sister, your mother, your father, your friends, your cousins, your aunts and uncles, your grandparents, your neighbors, your teachers...anybody who has ever cared for you, and you are inflicting this upon yourself, as well.  On your future, on every smile from this moment on, on the children you may have, the lives you might change, and the mistakes you will make. 

YOU are not the face of suicide.  Friends, family, loved ones are the face of suicide, because they are the ones who have to clean up the mess and fill in the space we left behind. 

Sometimes life thickens, makes it hard to move through.  The pain becomes the only steady point we have, but pain is proof of life and the potential for getting better.  You're not broken, you don't need to be fixed.  You just need someone to listen.  If they don't, MAKE them.  Pull out the S word if it's on your mind, and they WILL stop.  They DO believe you're important and have hope for your future, even if you feel overwhelmed and underloved.  The pace of life is constantly changing and it's easy for anybody to get self-absorbed.  It doesn't mean they do not care or love you, or that they would not be devastated by your death.  It just means if you need help sometimes it's easier to be the one who reaches out than to wait for someone to slow and notice.  GIVE the ones YOU LOVE the chance to LOVE YOU...just this once.  They WILL NOT LET YOU DOWN.

If anybody is having suicidal thoughts, please contact:

1-800-SUICIDE (1-800-784-2433)

1-800-273-TALK (1-800-273-8255)  

Let's Get Some Controversy Going, Going..Really Rollin'

I find women attractive.  I am married to a man.  This does not mean I:

A) am looking for a woman

B) encourage my husband to look for women

nor

C) am a sexual deviant

 

Many women find other women attractive, yet do not intend to act on it for whatever reason.  I have female friends who like to watch manless pornos, but do not want to be intimate with another woman.  Had I not gotten married to my husband, I would have dated a woman if the opportunity arose.  I met the Dikini first, though, so he's the person who got my heart and body.

 

You're now wondering what the hell I am on about.  I'm getting there, ya fudge-mustache.  Gimme a second, will ya?

 

Kinsey, folks.  He had a good point.

 

I play free online poke when the mood strikes.  Yesterday, a man (Named Shogunate, yes, really) tried to hit on me at a table.  I told him I was married and he persisted, trying to convince me I should take a risk and indulge whatever strange notions bowled around in his head.  When I told him risk was good in poker but bad in a marriage, another woman liked my response and told me so.  He then called the woman a lesbian, referred to her as Ellen, and called her a carpet muncher. 

 

Oh yes, he soooooo did. 

 

I came to her defense and told him I was half lesbian, just not a practicing one, and that he could call me Ellen, too.  Then I joked my husband thought he was lucky because he doesn't get in trouble for looking at an attractive woman.  Meanwhile, the guy is still making homophobic comments about this woman at the table for some unfuckingfathomable reason.  The woman told him she was married and the guy responded he was, as well...+ three kids.

 

Then he turned his attention back to me and told me I had a lot to learn about relationships and my husband was likely cheating on me that very second.  If I allowed my husband to look at other women, it would only be so long before he broke the Cerberus chains all women affix to their husband at marriage and went wild, humping everything in sight as Cerberus itself probably wanted to do but never had a long enough lunch break to achieve.

 

I paraphrased that last bit.  Damn the bastards of nay.  Tell a guy not interested and suddenly I'm attacked for being faithful, while he (without realizing it) admits he was trying to be UNfaithful.  And because I said women were attractive, I immediately had questionable fidelity and--this cracked me up--was said to have watched too much porn by a Shogunate sidekick trying to get his Yays in.  For those of y'all unfamiliar with midgetspeak, after I said I think women are attractive another guy at the poker table feigned disgust, implying because I think women are attractive I must act on it, and then said I was shameful and watched too much porn.     

 

Absoludicrous.  I'm not going to lie about finding women attractive, but that little fact does not give me special privileges in a marriage.  I am in a heterosexual marriage and I don't intend to indulge in anything else.  If asked, I will tell you my attractions may blur the line, but my actions do not.   

 

He really took the cake and the ice cream when he said, "Midget, you have a lot to learn about trust in a relationship." 

 

Excuse me, Freud, but do you realize what you're preaching is the exact opposite of trust?  Even if trust had an ugly, inbred third cousin once removed, ^^^^^^ would not be it.  By your estimation, a man can only be faithful if I spritz him with a water bottle or order him not to look at other women.  Such a case would be me being controlling, not him being faithful, in case you missed it.  You gave an accurate portrayal of bitter projecting, however.  It's rather obvious you feel your wife does not care, and try to get in a little Throckmorton Magycka when you're feeling underappreciated.  Here's a tasty little tidbit you don't know, Spudnick.  YOU are cheating to get CAUGHT.  You are not doing it because you cannot keep it in your pants; you are doing it because it's been a while since your wife has been in 'em and you want to needle some passion out of her.  When I shot you down in front of other people, you took it poorly and went on the offensive.  

 

If you're desperate, try sitting on your hand.  I hear that makes masturbation more exotic for guys.  Or not.  I really don't care what you do with your penis, so your wife and I have something in common, it seems.

 

Trust has to be given IN FAITH to someone, not enforced.  YOU started by looking at women.  Your wife didn't stop you.  You talked to women.  Your wife didn't stop you.  You went out with women.  Your wife didn't stop you.  You had sex with them.  Your wife didn't stop you.  You're trying to punish your wife by playing a game of What can I catch in my pants?! 

 

I can't wait until you catch it's sequel, It's Incurable! Now, what?

 

Damn you bastards of Nay, you lemmings of Yay.  Hypocrisy is the fruit of ignorance, so congrats Shogunate, you're the biggest fruit I've met all year!