The night that Louisa was discharged, I decided that it was my chance to finish everything, I would kill myself. My life seemed too unhappy to continue living. The only times that I felt food, satisfied about myself were when I was tripping. Now, everyone was doing their best to take that away from me, There was nothing to take its place. Dealing with life was too hard. I just couldn’t cope with it anymore. Just the idea of being dead made me feel better. That night, the nurses were standing at the nurses’ station, gossiping while the waited for the dinner trays to arrive. a new nurse left the medication room open while she asked the other nurses a question. Watching them all, I saw my opportunity. I slipped into the room, found a razor, and was out again before she returned. It had taken only a moment to find what I needed. Nobody saw me. After dinner, I went to my room to be alone, Giddy with excitement, I crouched in the corner next to my bed, the razor ready. I was suddenly happy with myself. It seemed that I was doing the right thing after all. Not quite sure of how hard to press the razor against my wrist, my first stroke barely cut the skin. It hurt, but the pain didn’t seem to be a part of me. I tried again, a little harder, and again. Still the blood didn’t flow as I expected it to. I played with the blood, rubbing it on my face and arms, and writing words on the floor and wall. Then I thought that it might work better with the other wrist. I closed my eyes and slashed. Everything went dark.
When I came to, I was in a bed, restrained and an I.V. dripped into my arm. From what I was told, Joe had come to see me after supper. He had cancelled a late appointment so that he could spend some time and have a long visit with me. When he came to my room, he found me huddled in a corner, unconscious and covered in blood. I guess I passed out before I could make a fatal cut.
Now I’m sitting in seclusion with both of my wrists bandaged. I’m considered suicidal as well as a drug addict. I can’t even imagine when they’ll discharge me.Dr. Shane has come to see me several times, but I always refuse to talk to him. His questions and concern are too much for me to handle right now. After being in seclusion for three days, I’ve had lots of time to think about what’s happened. I know now that I almost lost Jow and his love by not believing in him. I can never forgive myself for that; my scars will be a reminder forever. I guess that maybe acid never was the answer to my problems, but I still miss the feelings it gave me. Maybe Joe’ll be here soon and we can talk …
Post Note: When I was given this assignment, I really struggled about what to write about. I decided on this when the instructor said to write about a subject you are familiar with. I’ve done acid, lots of acid. But I was never hospitalized for it and I never slit my wrists in a suicide attempt. This was written in the mid 80’s shortly after BPD was formally identified, though I’d never heard of it. I was writing of feelings and behaviors Id struggled with for many years. As I’ve read and typed this, I see so many of the identifiers of BPD. Guess I have had it most of my life after all! Who’d of thought! Thanks to all of you who have taken the time to read these 4 posts as well as any of my other posts. I really do appreciate you all.