There’s only so long a person can take it. The voices, I mean. They followed me everywhere. To school, to orchestra practice, home…I just couldn’t take it anymore. Lots of people say that, I know. But even the voices told me my time had come.
It’s time to die… they hissed.
My tool of choice was a razorblade, applied to my left wrist. Red blood, pain, then…nothing. Just how it should have been. But the nothing faded into stark white, and the smell of disinfectant. A crisp sheet was tucked in around me.
“I’m Kerri,” said a woman in navy blue scrubs. “I’m your staff person tonight.”
“Where am I?” I asked, as politely as I could, under the circumstances.
“St. Luke’s Hospital,” she replied. “The psychiatric unit.”
“Oh.” It didn’t really register.
But it did. Counselors, roommates, therapists, doctors…it all fell into place. And a diagnosis—“Schizophrenia.”
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In the Psychiatric Unit -- Holly
Posted about 1 year ago
In the Psychiatric Unit -- Holly
Posted about 1 year ago
In the Psychiatric Unit -- Holly
Posted about 1 year ago
In the Psychiatric Unit -- Holly
Posted about 1 year ago
In the Psychiatric Unit -- Holly
Posted about 1 year ago
In the Psychiatric Unit -- Holly
Posted about 1 year ago
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