Attempted Suicide- Chapter #5: Denial?

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
A young man being treated at a mental institution is desperately looking for a way to end his life. After countless failed attempts, will he finally succeed or will his plans be put on hold?

Submitted: August 10, 2008

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Submitted: August 10, 2008

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They said they had gained a great amount of trust in me, but the shackles and an armored car sent a different message. However, none of it bothered me the least bit because I knew something they didn't. They believed I had recovered and that I would spend the rest of my days enjoying the life I had so far wasted. If only they knew-- I couldn't be healed. I didn’t desire life and this would not change. But by this time I had become such a convincing performer that everyone believed that I felt the exact opposite. I had fooled everyone except myself of course. No, I knew how this “Recovery” would end. The first night that I am gifted a well-deserved bubble bath will be the night that all my twisted little dreams will come true.
So this was it? The cuffs were released first from my wrists and next the ankles. As I stepped onto the cold concrete of the Seattle streets I experienced my, now regular, suicide fantasies. Just a step in front of that speeding taxi… no stop. I couldn’t just end it here, not after all my hard work for the bath. I suppose these fantasies were the equivalent of a heroin withdrawal. I had not attempted in so long that my body was suffering.
“This is where you will be staying.” This room was no different than my cell back at Western. A bed bolted to the floor at one end, and at the other a completely visible surveillance camera. Surely they could not place these things in the bathroom! No worries, I would find a way around any obstacle now. I was so close to my realizations.
The therapy sessions did not change either. In fact, now we met every day instead of the once-a-week schedule. And now she seemed to ask more difficult questions than before. “What makes you angry?”. The god damn camera in the bathroom! No, I no longer had suicidal thoughts in their eyes. She forced me to ponder a bit deeper into my thoughts. What would she enjoy to hear? “My parents.” She quickly demanded an explanation, “What about your parents make you angry?” “They gave up. They figured a suicidal teenager was too much to deal with. So they left me with a few Psychologists in the loony bin. A simple monthly check would keep me in the hospital’s care and out of their hair.” My immediate response worried me. Was this really how I felt? Or had I become so well at acting that I began fooling myself? I had to redirect my focus. I was not here to recover; I only had to pretend my mental health. My purpose here was a long awaited suicide—nothing more. No, I was the same sick son-of-a-bitch that I had been my entire life. The distant sound of the kitchen faucet dripping grounded my wandering mind and reassured me that drowning was a wonderful choice. Yes, I would stick with drowning.


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