Turning Point: Part 2

Chapter Two

Believe me when I tell you that I've been persistent,

'Cause I'm more scarred, more scarred than my wrist is,

I've been trying too long, with too dull of a knife,

But tonight I made sure that I sharpened it twice,

I never bought a suit before in my life,

But when you go to meet god, you know you wanna look nice.

Bullet, Hollywood undead.


I woke up, feeling pain all over my body. My head, my thighs, wrists, basically everywhere. This isn't what I thought the underworld and eternity would look like, but okay. I looked down to find that my thighs and arms were both bandaged heavily, with additional gauze and tape on my shoulders. Okay, so I'm probably not in hell. But this clearly isn't heaven either.

The door opened a moment later, startling me just a bit. "You're awake," the person said softly. From the scrubs I'm guessing she was a nurse or doctor. She was pretty, a freckle-faced girl with her bright green hair in two braids.

Dammit! The hospital again, just like after all the other serious attempts. They managed to save me, again... how?! How can they not see that I'd be better off not on this earth?! Fourth attempt, failed. Well, technically fifth, but that's just if you want to get technical. Twice by hanging, once by drowning, and one attempt by exsanguination. Oh, and starvation. I don't really count the starvation one because that could take a while to work and I lasted six days before somebody forced me to eat.

Waking up in the hospital? This is the worst! But I guess it could always be more tragic, like if they had failed to save me. My mom and dad could be crying and screaming at the medical staff. One of my family members could have to be sedated because of their reaction. I guess I have it easier than most kids who wake up in the hospital after a suicide attempt do.

"Do you remember what happened?" The nurse asked, softly. She looked sad, for some reason. Not hard to guess why, most nurses on the psych unit wore this type of look constantly.

I didn't reply, my mind shutting down, I was closing myself off. The last thing I wanted was to talk to anyone. So I didn't talk at all.

"Are you unable to speak or just refusing?" She asked. I remained silent. "I'll take that as a refusal to speak, then," she continued, marking something on a chart.

"According to your brother you tried to kill yourself, and this was your fourth serious attempt. We stitched up some deep cuts on your shoulders, thighs, and arms, injuries that I assume were self-inflicted, and also we had to pump your stomach. The amounts of chemicals found in your bloodstream suggest that you swallowed almost a whole bottle of painkillers," She stated, trying to get a reaction out of me. I was trying to repress my emotions, but it didn't really work so I just did my absolute best not to show that what she said was affecting me.

"No response at all?" she asked. After a moment of silence she spoke quietly, but surely. "You don't even know how painful it is, watching teenagers throw away the rest of their lives because they're having issues with the world, so many of those issues could be helped and the crisis would be averted, they'd keep living," I was still silent. "Alright, well, I'm gonna go find your psychologist," she said before exiting the room.

So I have a psychologist now. Nifty, I wonder if I'd be forced to talk to him or her. I never did put much stock in psychology, it was a soft science to me. I had taken a psychology course for one of my electives my freshman year, and that really didn't change my views.

If anything it just reinforced my former opinion that psychology's a soft science and most psychologists are crazy themselves. Crazy being used lightly, and as a not-medical term of course. I mean, Abraham Maslow with his hierarchy of needs. Sigmund Freud with his whole psycho-sexual stages. Erik Erikson with his psycho-social stages. Let them have their crackhead insanely demented psychological theoretical shit that makes no sense to normal people anyway. Give me my hard science. But I hadn't signed on for the psychology from that anyway, I had signed on for the art; it was exploring the link between art and mental illness. I wanted the hard science of bloodstains and chemicals and marks on the bones. I didn't need a psychologist, I needed to be dead.

"I don't want to live, why can't you people just let me die?!" I hollered, beyond frustrated. This was my fourth (Okay, fifth...) attempt and I had failed. I had tried drowning, that didn't work. I had literally held my head under water in the pool, trying to drown myself before realizing that wouldn't work so I tried something else. They found me unconscious in the bottom of the lake, I was weighted down with as many small rocks and stones that I could find. Rocket was the strongest underwater swimmer of us all, so she was the one who dragged me out of the water; it took her maybe two minutes to get me to solid ground before somebody had started CPR. As soon as I was able to I started struggling against them but they held me down until the ambulance got there.

I had tried starvation. Chris and Jen and Jules made me eat. And by made me eat, I mean they held me down and forced me to eat something. Wasn't the most pleasant experience, to be honest. Let's just say the next time we sat down for dinner, they didn't have to hold me down because I'd rather eat myself than have them forcing me to. I didn't eat much though; and after a couple days of that Chris threatened to hold me down and force feed me if I didn't finish the food on the plate.

I kind of don't really count that one in the final tally of attempts, because it can take up to a year to die to of starvation and Chris and the twins force-fed me after about six days.

I had tried hanging twice, they found me as I jumped and got me to the hospital, managing to save me against the odds. I have a lovely scar on my neck from the rope the second time, something sharp was caught in the rope. This time around I had tried exsanguination and used pills to hopefully make sure I didn't survive. But obviously I'm still here, so it didn't work.

"Raven, you don't mean that," came a voice. Julia walked in, followed by Jenni and Chris. They had obviously all been crying. Chris had tear tracks on his cheeks with fresh tears rolling from his eyes.

"Yeah, I think I did mean that. Why can't people respect the fact that I want to die and stop saving someone who doesn't want to be saved?! Go save someone who wants to live!!!!!" I burst out, angry. I noticed a woman talking to Jenni and mom.

"I'm Doctor Adele Foster. Your sister's psychologist, and I must say I was expecting silence from what the nurse told me, but what a pleasant surprise knowing she's not mute,"

"Psychology's a soft science that's full of crackhead theoretical demented shit that takes six to eight years of education after high school to understand even partially. Give me the cold facts, hard evidence of DNA, blood splatters, ballistics, and bone and I'll be really happy," I spit out. Doctor Foster just smiled. Mercy, I already really didn't like her.

"I'm Jenni, that's Julia, Roksana, and Chris. Raven, watch your tongue," Jenni said. That was nothing. ASL was my first language, and I could cuss like a sailor in my mother tongue, or should I say hand. "You guys can talk to Raven if you want. And don't worry Jenni, I've dealt with my share of difficult patients," she said.

"May I braid her hair?" Rocket asked doctor Foster. "If it's alright with her I don't have a problem with it," she answered. Rocket moved over towards me, "Can I, Raven? Please?" She asked, making puppy eyes at me.

I can't resist the power of Rocket's puppy eyes, so I nodded. Rocket was an artistic personality, and she had a great eye for detail. She finger-combed through my hair, starting a braid. I swatted at her hand quickly when she reached for my bangs. She was trying to do a braided headband of sorts, I think. "You want the fringe down," she correctly interpreted what the swatting meant, I nodded.

"Raven, after breakfast tomorrow you will be transferred to Hope for Healing Hearts, which is the residential treatment facility near here. You'll be admitted there where you will be under suicide watch until the doctor appointed to you deems you not a danger to yourself or others. That could be a week, it could be a couple of months, it could be over a year. Depends on you. That doctor happens to be me, just so you know," she started.

"As for you guys, visits will be scheduled and supervised, by myself or another staff member. Any staff can advise that certain people be not allowed to contact Raven but legally only she can bar people from seeing her, except in extenuating circumstances. So like if somebody who visited was witnessed hitting Raven, certain regulations may be placed for that person to visit. We will only bar somebody from visiting you as a last resort," Great. So I'm stuck with Doctor Foster until I get better, or better enough to be released anyway.

I decide then and there: Once I'm out, I will finish what I started. Rocket had finished my braid, she did like a French fishtail braid around my head or something, leaving my fringe alone.

Chris sat beside me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders, carefully avoiding the IV. I noticed he was crying and felt my heart shatter into a million pieces. My twin very rarely ended up crying, it took a lot to get even one tear from him. Funerals? Please, those were like a piece of cake for him without tears.

My brain went into hyper-scold mode, kicking me around for the tears that were starting to roll down my cheeks. I reached up with one hand and carefully brushed the tears off my brother's face. He took a deep breath before starting to speak.

"Nobody wants to send you into the mental hospital. We don't want you to have to go away. But we don't want to lose you completely, either. You're my twin, Raven. I've always been there for you and I always will be. If that means we have to put you in there, then that's what will happen. I'm so sorry, sis, it's killing me inside to have to say this. But you need to get better, Raven," he whispered, making me choke up.

He gently swiped at my cheeks, flicking the tears away before pulling me close to him in a bear hug. I leaned into him, my head landing on his shoulder. "You're gonna get better, you're gonna come out of this fine. At least try, try to get better for the people who love you and don't want to see you go too soon," he said firmly, wanting reassurance that I couldn't give for fear that I wouldn't be able to follow through. I buried my head in his shoulder to hide my tears as he rubbed my back softly.

Once I'm out, I will finish what I started. This is a promise, I tell myself. I'll try something I haven't tried yet. Carbon monoxide poisoning, jumping off a building, gunshot to the head, drugs overdose, maybe cyanide poisoning or explosives, self-immolation, or suffocation. I could always drink ammonia and bleach, try to poison myself. There are options. I guess I just need to plan better or something. My sex also seems to work against me, more females attempt and more boys actually do.

psychologymental health
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Kyleigh Baltz

I'm just a girl trying to make it in this world. I write fiction mostly but I also do some things in nonfiction, like controversial issues.

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