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Into the Abyss.

by Lauren Davey 8 months ago in Fantasy · updated 8 months ago
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The Beginning of the Dark, Pt 6

The Dark Night of the Soul

I walk over to where the bed is and lay myself upon it. “Why is he doing this to me?” I weep. I mean, I know why. To prevent me from moving on. But how can he do this to me? A lady nurse enters the room. I instantly jump from the bed and once again plead with her, “Please, I have children who are relying on me. I was not going to run. Ask the other nurse from the Emergency Department, please?” The nurse motions for me sit back down onto the bed and says, “Its ok. Try to calm down, ok? I’ve got some medication here to help you relax, sweetheart.” She says, holding up the little plastic container with the lorazepam tablets inside. I take a deep breath in and retrieve the container from her. I cannot stop crying. I am completely broken. However, I intuit that if I do not surrender to the situation then I am going to make that of my time here harder than it needs to be. Reading the psychiatrist’s notes, the nurse then queries me, “So, whom is this Zabian Ryder?” I am resistant in trying to articulate that of an explanation and simply reply, “He was my lecturer.” Attempting to form that of a conversation with me she then asks, “What were you studying?” Once again, I am extremely reluctant on how much information I should be disclosing and I look away. “Shaniquah,” the nurse says, “If you can help us to understand the situation you are going to get out of here a lot quicker.” I turn my head back toward her, then allow my face to fall to that of my chest. “It was a Transpersonal Counselling course.” The nurse continues her enquiry. “Has there been contact with him outside of the school?” I cannot do this. I look away again, enforcing that of my right to stay silent. “Shaniquah?” She says my name again, asking me to try to answer her question. “Look,” I say to her, “It really does not matter, ok. I just want to get out of here and what he has just done to me has shown me exactly what…” I stop mid-sentence, realising that which is about to come out of my mouth. Turning my head away from her again before looking back at her, I attempt to alter that of the conversation and ask, “Am I allowed to call my kids?” The nurse looks at me with inquisition. “Yes. You will be able to at some stage. Or I can ring somebody on your behalf if you like, but Shaniquah,” She then reaches her hand to my ankle and gently rests it there, “If there has been a misconduct of some description, you are safe to tell me?” Once again, my protective instinct of him takes that of the reigns to my position and despite where I am in this moment, I refuse to disclose anything else. Not only this, but I am well aware of how anything in which I say to ultimately explain that of my position in the situation, will inevitably sound. And so, I simply choose to ignore her. Unlike him, hurting him is not on my agenda. I just want this to all be over. Knowing that she is not going to get any further with me, the nurse pats my ankle and says, “Try to get some rest, ok?” I nod my head and lay back down. After a little while, the medication begins to do its job and I allow myself to cry myself to sleep.

Given that it is a weekend, I am not seen to by another psychiatrist until the following Monday. Thankfully, it is a different psychiatrist to the arsehole from the Emergency Department. Although, fuck knows how deep Zabian's connections essentially run. My guard is up as I enter that of the little room to where the psychiatrist awaits my presence. The nurse whom was with me the other day has requested to be present at the meeting and speaks to my behalf. And I, now fluent in the act of such, continue to embody into that of silence. She informs them of my kind, well-mannered and cooperative nature. She informs them that I have been utilising the hospitals creative recourses, indulging in various arts and crafts and advises them that in her personal opinion, that I should no longer be kept within the closed ward. They ask me to leave the room so that they may further discuss my situation. Upon my return, they reveal that they are moving me into the open ward almost immediately.

Upon my first night in the open ward, I am to share a room with another patient. My anxiety is a little escalated due to this and so, I ask if I may please have something to assist me to sleep. Hours later I am still awake, tossing and turning and unable to settle. I am up and down, heading outside for cigarettes every hour or so. Eventually, one of the nurses pops her head in with some more medication. Later, I discover that the initial dose in which I requested, was in actual fact given to me as a placebo! “No wonder it didn’t fucking work!” The following morning, all of the patients are to locate to that of a little room, where-by one by one, each of us receives a full round of observations and our medication. I inform them that I am ok at present and that I do not need any more lorazepam. However, they hand me a little plastic container with some medication in it, anyway. “Wait a minute," I think to myself whilst peering into the container, "this medication, is different.” Hesitant about what to say i nearly stutter, “Umm, what is this?” I passively question the nurse. “It is just something to help with your thoughts.” She advises. “What do you mean?” I ask her. I haven’t spoken with anybody about my thoughts, so what the fuck are they on about? “The doctors have prescribed you some anti-psychotic medication.” The nurse discloses. “What the fuck?” I am utterly gobsmacked. I begin to speak, “I…” Although I do not so much as get one word in before the nurse cuts me off. “If you refuse to take it you will end up back in the closed ward.” My jaw drops to my chest. I cannot fucking believe this shit? So not only have I had my freedom torn from me like a child has been taken from that of its mother, but now, I also have to ingest some toxic fucking drug that I do not even need! Could this situation be any more unjust? I look at the nurse in protest, but knowing that I do not have another choice, I comply. “This is beyond fucked up.”

The following day I am granted permission to spend a few hours with my children at my mother's place. However, I last all of but an hour before I end up in a full blown panic attack. I pace. I do not feel as though I can breathe. I am not comfortable in my own skin. This is the first, of which will ultimately become only one of many, panic attacks that which I will experience from this moment forward. I do not feel safe. Every last fibre of my being is screaming for security. For protection. My voice has been revoked. My right to express myself has been assaulted. The freedom to simply, be me, has been enshrouded by that of the mask in which this situation has placed upon me and I no longer trust within the system that which has inevitably, completely failed me. The anti-psychotic medication is fucking with my mind, my vessel and my essence. Thankfully, the universe continues to shield me from any further injustice through the amplification of my psychic abilities.

When I arrive back at the hospital, I am guided on exactly what to say to each and every individual whom interacts with me. It is as though their energy, their thought processes and their emotional intellect is lit up in that of my third-eye like a gigantic, neon flashing sign. I can read them perfectly. I know precisely what each staff member of this hospital needs to hear from me and see of me, in order to get me the fuck out of this place. Within a couple of days, and after enduring a scan of my brain, I am once again summoned to see yet another psychiatrist. Sitting in the chair in the little room, I answer each of his questions in accordance to that which my guides are channelling through me. By the end of the conversation, he informs me that they are going to move me to a place down the road, where-by I will no longer be a patient of the hospital, but to where I can prepare for the transition back to home. Before he leaves, he looks at me and says, “Shaniquah. You are getting out of here in less than a week of being admitted. This is almost unheard of for someone who was admitted for the reasons you were. Why do you think this is?” Firstly, why exactly was I admitted, Mr Psychiatrist dude? Please, feel free to tell me so that we both know, because I am still at a loss as to what the fuck I did, to get the treatment in which I have! Of course, I do not say this. I look at him, knowing that he is not an idiot, but also intuiting that he may indeed, have suspicions about whether I should have been admitted to begin with, as did the nurse whom assisted me within that of the closed ward. “It’s just the way I am, I guess,” I shrug my shoulders and raise the side of my mouth, “I have always been one to heal rather quickly.” He looks at me and smiles. “You take care of yourself, ok Shaniquah.” I smile back and reassure him, “I will.”

Arriving at the after-care centre, I am grateful to discover that I can come and go as I please. And so, the first thing in which I do is retrieve my car and drive home. Once there, I enter the space of my healing room. However, I do not so much as make it to the table before I collapse on to that of the floor and with almost no control, begin to, scream. I howl. I yell. I bellow out everything in which I have had to hold onto for the last week. All of the emotions that which have been patiently sitting beneath the surface of my self-expression, come flooding out like one would experience during a projectile vomit. The anger. The pain. The betrayal. Everything gushes out from within me with a force that which catapults me into a state of one the harshest releases, to which I have known. I scream, for every time I had to bite that of my lip and pretend that I was ok. I scream, for every time in which I had to project that of myself into another’s field of energy, so to be able to read them with an acute accuracy. I scream, for every time in which I had to adhere to something that which was not in resonance with my soul. I scream, for every last ounce of freedom that which, I was so unapologetically and unfairly, robbed of. Once I am finished, I leave. The surroundings that which were once of such comfort to me, only remind me of being taken from my place of sovereignty. My place of stability. My place of solace. I no longer feel safe within the confinements of, my own home.

After locking my front door behind me, I approach the pear tree in my front garden. Wrapping my arms around the trunk, I hug it as tightly as I possibly can, breathing in all of its beauty and welcoming all of the healing energy that which radiates from that of its very being. Thanking it for the invitation to use that of its presence so to ground me after such an intense release, I then jump back into my vehicle. I quickly stop passed my mother’s place to briefly cuddle my children, before I head back to the after-care centre and settle myself into some well-earned, rest. When I awake, I take a moment to appreciate the space in which I am in. The rooms in this place are situated into pods, all consisting of three rooms each and it is seriously like that of a mini hotel. The other two rooms of my pod are empty so not only do I get to nurture myself amongst the luxury of the room itself, I also do not have to share that of my kitchenette or lounge area with anybody else. As residents here, we are not allowed to enter into the pod spaces to where our own room does not reside, either. And, after being around others for the last week against that of my own free-will, the notion of solitude is nothing but pure bliss to that of my heart, and to that of my soul. I take a shower and get dressed before proceeding to make my way outside for a smoke. When I leave my room however, I am once again, stopped dead within that of my tracks, frozen beneath that fucking pond, again! There, written on the notice board in my lounge area, is three simple, yet powerful words. “I love you.”

ThankYOU for taking the time to read that of my story, BeYOUtiful Soul. If It captivated You and You would like to explore more of Shaniquah's Journey, let me Know by tapping on the Heart-shaped button and showing me some Love, then head over to my Personal profile to delve Deeper InTo that of Shaniquah's World. If You Feel Called to offer Your Support to my Journey as a Writer, please feel free to tap on the tip button, also. All proceeds Are very much Valued and Appreciated, and Will go toward the Creation of my first novel. Infinite Love and Gratitude, Lollie.

Create a BeYOUtiful Incarnation!


About the author

Lauren Davey

The short Creative stories In which You Will Read Here, All pertain to the Journey of BeLoved, TwinFlames. They Are Inclusive of various concepts of Spirtuality, Tantra and Sacred Sexuality, Amalgamated with a cheeky, mild dose of Erotica.

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