Part XV: Back In The Cycle…
“No!” I protested, “I have a different idea.”
Pastor Brandon cocked his head, “I’m listening.”
“The first time I ever had suicidal thoughts was in a state hospital,” I explained, “So it made things worse. But there is a hospital that helped.”
It wasn’t a complete lie. Decatur West helped in the sense that it gave me a place to stay while I was homeless and waiting for money to come in. But, I wasn’t thinking about that. I was thinking about self-preservation.
“I can call my mother and have them get me a bed there.”
“Use my phone,” he told me.
I objected, “I’d rather do it when I get home.”
“You are not leaving this room if we’re not sure that’s where you’re going.”
I should have pretended to make the call, but I really made it, and I never went home. I went straight to the hospital.
* * *
The hospital played the same old games as before. And it was still pretty much a locked down resort with needles (except no needles for me), but something was different this time. I really was working the system rather than gaming it.
“If you work with the system, it helps,” my mother told me, “but if you don’t believe in it, it can’t do anything for you.”
That’s funny. You hardly ever hear that about penicillin.
So, I worked with the system, and I ended up on a new medication. Klonapin. Everything was going just peachy, or so I thought.
About two weeks after I got out of that place, I realised I still felt the same. I was just brainwashed into thinking I felt better. They didn’t solve the problem. They tricked me into thinking it wasn’t there (or that it was all in my head).
The good news, however, is that I found out my Klonapin had a street value of about five dollars a pill. Considering my insurance copay was about one dollar for a bottle of 30, that amounted to quite a profit. Not that I’m admitting to selling them…