Hold On...

The first week in the hospital was absolute Hell in my mind. I did my best to hold my composure when around other patients and the staff, but inevitably the dark comfort of brooding thoughts and the overwhelming tides of tears would take over within moments of being away from people. The cold doctor had decided to start the dosages of medications low so that he could see what would work on me. Little did he know that he was going to have such an annoying case on his hands, as became apparent to him when I was still in the hospital after a week.

It became clear to me over that first week that in many cases the patients would only be here for a few days before being given a clean bill of health and sent on their merry way. Secretly I loathed those lucky enough to be in and out that fast. 

Every day would start the same with some of the staff coming in to wake us while routinely checking our rooms for anything that we could use to injure ourselves. Shortly after that, breakfast would be brought up to us, followed by medications then various activities; art, group sessions, checkups, smoke breaks, and similar things. Lunch came next, followed by more of the same bullshit we traversed in the morning. If we were well behaved and didn't do anything too bad we were allowed to actually leave the ward to go down to the cafeteria to get our dinners ourselves. Many people in the ward saw this as a privilege. I saw it as another way to be displayed like a circus act.

After that first week the urge to feel something other than hate became too much. The first time I hurt myself in the hospital, I had taken a plastic knife from the cafeteria when the staff was distracted by another patient. I had slipped it into my shoe so that they wouldn't find it by checking my pockets. My one room mate had been released from the hospital earlier that day, so I had the whole room and bathroom to myself. As soon as I saw that the staff had checked in on me, I made my move. 

Huddled in the doorless shower, I began sawing away. It took minutes before the flimsy plastic finally pierced my skin. At that moment I felt a surge of relief and anger mixed in its own dangerous cocktail, pushing me further and further to feel the pain more. The emotional dance between shame at my actions and humor at the irony of the situation left me even more confused than I was before I started. For what felt like hours, I let myself sink into the terrible pleasure that had become my own personal heroin. Saw, saw, pant, saw, saw, gasp, sob, saw, laugh....

I heard knocking on my door. The panic set in as soon as I realized that I had lost more blood than could be explained as a mere accident to the staff. Desperate to hide my self inflicted shame, I quickly turned the shower on as I heard them enter my room. They called out to see if I was alright, respecting my privacy as I washed away as much evidence as possible. After assuring them for a couple of minutes through the sound of water splashing, they left me alone. The thrill of getting away with fooling them into thinking I was just showering was almost intoxicating as I finally settled into bed for the night.

The momentary euphoria was quickly dashed in the predawn hours of the next morning. Unlike the usual soft knocks and calm voices luring me to the land of wakefulness, I was startled awake by flashlights in my eyes and inquiries of if I could hear them. One of the night nurses had not been convinced by my charade the night before and had sent one of the male nurses to check my bathroom. They had found the plastic knife, remnants of skin and blood lodged in its pathetic plastic teeth. After that was found, the nurse had rushed to check on me and found my self inflicted wound gouged deep into my arm and leaking its crimson secrets over the sheets. I had apparently been unresponsive, so more urgent action was needed. As I slowly came to, they quickly began to treat my wound while also routinely taking any and all personal effects and anything else they could deem as a threat to me. I was left only with my scrubs, a comb, a toothbrush, and other items needed for hygeine. 

The embarassment and self loathing that followed this quickly overwhelmed me. I wouldnt talk to any of the patients or staff. The only response I gave to anyone that entire day could be summed up as an emotional outburst fit for the Incredible Hulk without the smashing. The cold doctor had began questioning me about why I had hurt myself and asked a very simple question which I instantly took as an attack: "Do you even want to get better?"

After a few days of silence, I had my second moment of collapse. Still left with the bare minimums for hygeine, I quickly began to find ways to stick it to them. The first attempt, although foolish, was the comb. repeated sawing did indeed produce a minor flow of vermillion relief, but it wasn't enough. The real humor to me came when I realized how many prisoners became so inventive. I sharpened the end of my toothbrush on the grout between the tiles on the wall, turning that plastic dental product into a makeshift weapon. I will not go into details from here other than to say I was discovered the same way.

The urges for the red romance became a constant obsession. I was not allowed to use anything remotely sharp, pencils replaced with charcoal or crayons, forks replaced with spoons, no access to shaving equipment even with direct supervision. For decency, I was allowed up to 2 minutes in the bathroom alone to do my thing before a male nurse would be required to be present. Even with all of these precautions, I still could think only of that soothing feeling of pain.

Then one day, a new male nurse began working in our ward. A truly kind soul, he quickly broke through many of the barriers I had put up and did one better than I could imagine. He found out about my past experience with music, and had somehow tracked down a guitar that he would let me play while he listened and talked to me about all of his favorite bands and songs.

This. This was hope incarnate in my eyes.

We as a society will often talk about addictions in a way that can be deemed as taboo. Whether it is drugs, eating, not eating, alcohol, self harm, or any other form of addiction, a knee-jerk reaction is to either gloss over the offenses or to treat the person as a terrible person. From someone who has suffered their fair share of addictions, please allow me a moment to share my thoughts on the subject.

Addictions do not make a person a bad person. Ignoring the addictions or glossing over them in many ways can be as damaging as the addiction itself. Everyone falters at one time or another when it comes to addictions.

If you are suffering from an addiction, understand that I do not believe you are any less of a person. You are amazing and have the strength to make it through this. It will never be too late to reach out for help. I will always be available for you no matter the situation. I will do anything I can to help you.

If you know someone who is suffering from an addiction, please remember who they really are. In many cases it may seem like a lost cause, but as long as life still exists, hope is there. Reach out to them. Help them to find the resources they need to become better. Hold them close and love them with all of your heart. Every person has their own demons, and each person deserves to be loved in spite of that.

So take a moment. Hold a friend close. Let them know you love them. And do everything you can to help them through their hard times.