A wonderful life

It was a late summer's day, the kind that makes you feel grateful to be alive. Yet all I could think about was death. I was surrounded by ghosts. The long, balmy days stretched out before me as I tried to come to terms with the death of my family.

Only days before, I had tried to take my own life. Now here I was locked up in a psychiatric ward surrounded by insane people.

I quickly made friends with another patient called Lucia. Her hair was a bright shade of electric blue, and her energy both enticed me and frightened me in equal measure.

At the age of thirty, Lucia was a veteran of these wards. She told me breathlessly how she had been diagnosed with borderline personality disorder and was waiting for a treatment called Dialectical Behaviour Therapy. She asked me if I wanted to join her for a pamper night.

While she painted my nails, I could not help but stare at the scars on Lucia's arms.

'Oh, don't worry, I don't self-harm half as much as I used to anymore', she said as she caught my glance.

We put on face masks and played some music. As Beyonce's 'Run the World' blared out of her phone, I wondered why Lucia was here. She seemed fine. Then again, so did I.

I had taken a bottle of paracetamol, downed with a glass of whisky. I didn't want to die, but I wanted the pain to end. They pumped out my stomach, and I can still taste the paracetamol on my tongue. I doubt the taste will ever go away.

I was then brought to this psychiatric ward. The patients gathered in the lounge to watch whatever was on television. They all looked drugged and spaced out. I wondered to myself whether this place was worse than death.

Out of nowhere, the alarms suddenly blared. I could hear all the staff shout, 'bedroom nine' and run to Lucia's room. I heard shouting and screaming as the staff tried to restrain her.

I stayed in my bedroom and tried to sleep. It was the only thing that gave me any comfort these days—an escape from the existential dread of being alive on this earth without my family.

There was a knock on my door. It was the nurse on duty.

'Please come to the clinic for your meds, Margot'.

I queued in line for my medication. Patients went up one by one to swallow whatever concoction was given to them by the nurse. I didn't know what they were giving me, but I dutifully acquiesced, hoping these magical pills might make me feel better.

They didn't. The feeling of wanting to die was so overwhelming; I could not bring myself to get out of bed, should the world swallow me up. It was almost like a physical pain afflicted me; I could feel it in my bones. Any hint of colour offended my sepia-tinted existence.

Everything in the ward was run with military precision. After each meal, cutlery was counted before we could leave the dining room. Any glass belongings were kept in a security cupboard. If I wanted to go for a walk outside, I had to be accompanied by two members of staff. It felt suffocating, but these rules were here to protect both staff and patient.

The day after I arrived, I saw the psychiatrist.

'So, you want to die?' he asked.

'Yes, very much so', I replied.

It was an excruciating conversation. Please just end this pain, I thought to myself. Instead, he asked me all sorts of questions, from what my appetite was like to my sleep patterns to my sex drive.

'I don't want to sound rude or ungrateful, but you are wasting your time. I know what I want. I want to be with my family'. I waited patiently for his response.

'I understand, Margot. My job is to help you see a different path. One where you live and lead a fulfilling life. These feelings will pass, I promise'.

He asked me what my thoughts were on starting medication to lift my mood and prescribed a bereavement counselling course.

The next day I met my therapist. He went straight to the crux of the matter.

'Your family died. You survived. How do you feel about that?'.

I paused, then I answered, 'I feel guilty that I get to live, and they don't. I can't cope with the guilt. I don't understand why they had to die in that crash, and I escaped with barely a scratch. It's not fair'.

He nodded while writing in his notebook.

'It isn't fair, but it's not your fault. Okay? It's not your fault'.

We talked for hours, and for the first time, I felt validated. My pain was finally understood, and I felt much lighter for it. This kind man was rewiring events in my head, so I wasn’t burdened with self-loathing. He was giving me the tools to survive this pain.

I stayed in the ward for a few months. The combination of medication for my brain and therapy for my mind worked. I no longer felt suicidal. It was a miracle. I could envisage a future for myself, one without my family.

The psychiatric ward no longer felt like a prison but more like a holiday for my mind. Lucia and I became best friends, and I promised we would always stay in touch. Before I left, she dyed my hair a shocking pink, and we took selfies together.

The day I was discharged, I looked back at the hospital and saw my fellow patients waving from the window. I had needed this space to reconfigure my mind. I was now free to live as my family would want me to live. Free to live my life in colour again. I had been saved. A life lay ahead of me.

A wonderful life.