I Was Just Looking For A Way Out...
Chapter 34
For the sake of metaphor, let’s say I’m backed into a corner. Only I’m puking, I can’t stop shaking, I’m begging the doctor’s not to tell my parents, I’m begging for them to give me something to make this stop. In reality, my ‘corner’ is just the bathroom, hugging the toilet like a life jacket in the middle of the pacific. The doctors just keep saying,
“We can’t help you until you tell us what you took. They keep asking, “What did you take?” It’s my therapist and some on call M.D.
“Shut up!” I scream, “If you aren’t going to help-“I stop. I turn around and puke. All that’s left for my body to expel is stomach acid, so it does. Yellow and acidic it rises up my throat, burning and eating away at the tissue there like it would any other mammal I might eat, and from my mouth falls down into the toilet. It hits the water hard enough so that it splashes back at me, and I want to puke again. “If you aren’t going to help, then leave.” I repeat, completely this time.
“We can’t help you unless you tell us what you took!” The doctor yells, loosing his cool much faster then my calm therapist by him.
“Then you can’t help me.” I say as calm as I can. I want to talk but I can feel myself about to gag, so I wait, and it’s silent. My insides… they burn and itch, and I can’t tell where but it’s everywhere, like knives and poison icy are funneling through my veins. I turn to puke, but nothing escapes, so I just dry heave and dry heave like my stomach can tell what’s happening and is trying to jump ship. “I have to go to the bathroom.” I say when I finish. I try to stand up but my legs quake with the effort, as bad as my hand are, so I sit on the toilet. The two nod and start to leave. When the door closes I grab the shampoo bottle and pop off the top, under it is one of the razors I stole.
I roll up the sleeve of my jacket and I dig the small blade into the underside of my left arm, as hard as I can with the combined shaking for the two appendages being used, and drag it across. I figure the release of endorphins can only help… also I saw it on House. I grab the toilet paper and wrap it around the wound 15 or 16 times before I rip it off the roll. I recover the area with my sweatshirt and put the razor in my pocket. I full the toilet and lower myself back onto the floor and lay down.
Laying there, I can feel every inch of my body burn, like it’s on fire, but I’m shivering and cold at the same time. I’m tired, but my hands won’t stop shaking. I’m hungry, but I can’t stop throwing up. I can feel the tears roll out of my eyes.
The door opens and the pair of doctors walk in.
“We can’t help you unless you tell us what you did.” The doctor says again, for the 22nd time.
“Can you make this stop if I do?” I ask, trying to sit on my hands to stop them from shaking so bad.
“Stop? Maybe, but we can defiantly make it better.” My therapist says.
“Fine…. Fine.” I say and sigh, “but first help me up, I think I’m going to puke.”
“We can’t help you until you tell us what you took. They keep asking, “What did you take?” It’s my therapist and some on call M.D.
“Shut up!” I scream, “If you aren’t going to help-“I stop. I turn around and puke. All that’s left for my body to expel is stomach acid, so it does. Yellow and acidic it rises up my throat, burning and eating away at the tissue there like it would any other mammal I might eat, and from my mouth falls down into the toilet. It hits the water hard enough so that it splashes back at me, and I want to puke again. “If you aren’t going to help, then leave.” I repeat, completely this time.
“We can’t help you unless you tell us what you took!” The doctor yells, loosing his cool much faster then my calm therapist by him.
“Then you can’t help me.” I say as calm as I can. I want to talk but I can feel myself about to gag, so I wait, and it’s silent. My insides… they burn and itch, and I can’t tell where but it’s everywhere, like knives and poison icy are funneling through my veins. I turn to puke, but nothing escapes, so I just dry heave and dry heave like my stomach can tell what’s happening and is trying to jump ship. “I have to go to the bathroom.” I say when I finish. I try to stand up but my legs quake with the effort, as bad as my hand are, so I sit on the toilet. The two nod and start to leave. When the door closes I grab the shampoo bottle and pop off the top, under it is one of the razors I stole.
I roll up the sleeve of my jacket and I dig the small blade into the underside of my left arm, as hard as I can with the combined shaking for the two appendages being used, and drag it across. I figure the release of endorphins can only help… also I saw it on House. I grab the toilet paper and wrap it around the wound 15 or 16 times before I rip it off the roll. I recover the area with my sweatshirt and put the razor in my pocket. I full the toilet and lower myself back onto the floor and lay down.
Laying there, I can feel every inch of my body burn, like it’s on fire, but I’m shivering and cold at the same time. I’m tired, but my hands won’t stop shaking. I’m hungry, but I can’t stop throwing up. I can feel the tears roll out of my eyes.
The door opens and the pair of doctors walk in.
“We can’t help you unless you tell us what you did.” The doctor says again, for the 22nd time.
“Can you make this stop if I do?” I ask, trying to sit on my hands to stop them from shaking so bad.
“Stop? Maybe, but we can defiantly make it better.” My therapist says.
“Fine…. Fine.” I say and sigh, “but first help me up, I think I’m going to puke.”
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