Sometimes We Takes Chances, Sometimes We Take Pills
Don't let me get me.
I still felt sick, my stomach felt like it was filled with nauseous butterflies. I sunk deeper into the hospital bed and looked at Mikey. I didn’t need a babysitter, I needed a funeral. I sighed, picking at the tape that held my IV in place. It felt so uncomfortable. I could barely remember what had happened. I chased a bottle of pills with a bottle of vodka.
I remember counting. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6... 39, 40. The doctor came over and released me from the wires that had been attached at my ribcage to make sure I was still alive. I wish I wasn’t. He slipped out the IV that had been dripping sugar water into my veins to fill my veins and stomach up. I felt weak and dizzy as I shakily got out of the bed. “Er, could you leave?” I asked, gripping the back of my hospital gown so I didn’t expose myself. The doctor and Mikey quietly agreed and left to stand outside my hospital room. I could hear the doctor giving Mikey a presception for me, anti-depressants.
I wiggled onto my clothes that reeked of vodka and puke. Uncomfortably, I zipped up my hoodie and walked out of the hospital room. Stepping out of that hospital was like new found freedom. I had been so safe and so protected within those white walls. Mikey was staring at me as we stepped into the winter’s night air. “So, I’m supposed to keep an eye on you. How about we stop at your place, you can pack up some things and you can crash on my pull out couch until you’re better?” I had no choice but to agree. God, wait until the press got a hold of this. Fall Out Boy’s guitarist tries to commit suicide. Just the very idea made me wished my attempt had worked. Now I’d have to face the media frenzy and the fan’s concern and wrath. I groaned, crawling into Mikey’s beat up car. I wanted to sleep; puking out your guts for an hour was tiring.
Mikey woke me up when we got to my house. He had somehow remembered how to get here. He followed me inside, watching me closely as I packed a bag full of clothes and other things I thought I’d might need at an extended stay at his place. He took my bag for me and brought me back to his place. I spent the first night there going between sleeping on the couch and waking up to puke more. Sometimes something would come up, other times I stayed hunched over the toilet bowl dry heaving. I didn’t know what was worse to be honest. At least when something came up, there was a bit of relief.
Needless to say, I didn’t get much sleep. The next morning Mikey came out. He looked about as rested as I did. “How’d you sleep?” He asked, heading straight for the kitchen to get some coffee. I shrugged, “Not very well, I vomited a lot...” I watched his reaction. He sighed, pouring two mugs of coffee and handed me one. “I need to go pick up your anti-depressants, will you be okay here for a few minutes?” I looked around the room. I could take the knives in the kitchen and slice my wrists open; bleed to death. I could hang myself from the ceiling fan. I could take more pills. I could choke on something on purpose. I could put the oven on and poison myself with the fumes. I could swallow a whole tube of toothpaste and wash it down with some of that stingy stuff you put on cuts.
“No,” I answered him, “I should come with you.”
I remember counting. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6... 39, 40. The doctor came over and released me from the wires that had been attached at my ribcage to make sure I was still alive. I wish I wasn’t. He slipped out the IV that had been dripping sugar water into my veins to fill my veins and stomach up. I felt weak and dizzy as I shakily got out of the bed. “Er, could you leave?” I asked, gripping the back of my hospital gown so I didn’t expose myself. The doctor and Mikey quietly agreed and left to stand outside my hospital room. I could hear the doctor giving Mikey a presception for me, anti-depressants.
I wiggled onto my clothes that reeked of vodka and puke. Uncomfortably, I zipped up my hoodie and walked out of the hospital room. Stepping out of that hospital was like new found freedom. I had been so safe and so protected within those white walls. Mikey was staring at me as we stepped into the winter’s night air. “So, I’m supposed to keep an eye on you. How about we stop at your place, you can pack up some things and you can crash on my pull out couch until you’re better?” I had no choice but to agree. God, wait until the press got a hold of this. Fall Out Boy’s guitarist tries to commit suicide. Just the very idea made me wished my attempt had worked. Now I’d have to face the media frenzy and the fan’s concern and wrath. I groaned, crawling into Mikey’s beat up car. I wanted to sleep; puking out your guts for an hour was tiring.
Mikey woke me up when we got to my house. He had somehow remembered how to get here. He followed me inside, watching me closely as I packed a bag full of clothes and other things I thought I’d might need at an extended stay at his place. He took my bag for me and brought me back to his place. I spent the first night there going between sleeping on the couch and waking up to puke more. Sometimes something would come up, other times I stayed hunched over the toilet bowl dry heaving. I didn’t know what was worse to be honest. At least when something came up, there was a bit of relief.
Needless to say, I didn’t get much sleep. The next morning Mikey came out. He looked about as rested as I did. “How’d you sleep?” He asked, heading straight for the kitchen to get some coffee. I shrugged, “Not very well, I vomited a lot...” I watched his reaction. He sighed, pouring two mugs of coffee and handed me one. “I need to go pick up your anti-depressants, will you be okay here for a few minutes?” I looked around the room. I could take the knives in the kitchen and slice my wrists open; bleed to death. I could hang myself from the ceiling fan. I could take more pills. I could choke on something on purpose. I could put the oven on and poison myself with the fumes. I could swallow a whole tube of toothpaste and wash it down with some of that stingy stuff you put on cuts.
“No,” I answered him, “I should come with you.”