I don’t know where the thoughts came from, or how all of the familiar faces of unfamiliar people began to fill my mind, but they made me feel even worse than when Grandma Hope died, even though I thought then that feeling worse would be absolutely impossible. My only thoughts of action were that I must do whatever it took to make the overwhelming pain and loneliness stop. I cried for a little while, but that only made me feel worse, for what reason had anyone given me to cry? For what reason was I even feeling that way? It was me, I was the only thing making me feel those horrible sensations… and the solution must always deal with the cause.

I went into the upstairs bathroom and sat on the floor with my back against the door, furiously wiping away the tears that continuously began to form. I opened the bottom drawer of the vanity next to me, not even being able to look in the drawer, just feeling around aimlessly – I would be able to recognize what I needed. I felt my fingertips glide over cool metal, and I quickly took it out, closing the drawer and holding the object up in front of me.

The straight razor shined in the light flowing from the window. One simple act with that one simple tool and my loneliness would be gone. I marveled at how I didn’t come to this conclusion earlier in the pains of my life.

I felt what I thought would be my last tear create a path down my cheek. I opened the razor and held my left hand in front of me, palm up. This would be it. I lay the cool metal on the skin of my wrist then held my breath and closed my eyes tightly as I put pressure on it, quickly moving it down my arm. I gasped for air when the pain hit me – the deed was half done. I did the same for my other wrist, but the cut wasn’t half so deep, much of the capabilities of my hand were compromised by the severe gash. Oh well, it would have to do. I lay my hands on the floor, palms up, and closed my eyes as I felt the life drain from me. The larger that vivid red puddle grew, the closer I was to being devoid of pain.

I was almost to the point of losing consciousness when I heard my mother scream, then everything faded to black.

Much to my dismay I woke up in a hospital bed with my self-inflicted wounds wrapped and an IV in my arm. The first thing that I did after being saved from suicide was to cry. They weren’t happy tears. They were angry, disappointed, surprised and distraught tears, anything but happy. I wasn’t even adequate enough to take the only thing that was really mine – my own life.

People in white coats came in and talked to me, nurses watched me and told me how lucky that I was to still be alive, but I never paid enough attention to know who any of them were. They had no idea of the horrid feelings following a suicide attempt, not that I would want them to, but they still didn’t understand. The day after I woke up when my parents came to visit I heard one of the men in a white coat tell them that I had social anxiety disorder and depression. I don’t know how they came to any conclusions from what I told them, because it didn’t feel like I told them much of anything at all, but I suppose that they are professionals and I am only the patient. I still don’t quite know what either of my so-called diseases mean other than that there are universal names for the flaws I possess.

Something I probably should’ve mentioned earlier is that my parents don’t believe in depression or anxiety disorders, they don’t believe in many mental disorders at all. They think that therapists simply steal your money by making you believe that you have these ailments that don’t really exist. I never quite understood their reasoning. Why would somebody lie about something that could be so detrimental to another person’s life?

When I got out of the hospital they refused to take me to a mental health facility, they found it much more to their liking to give me a long talk about how what I did was wrong and it was against God’s plan for me. God’s plan for me! They haven’t stepped into a church since I was baptized, they were just trying to sound like Grandma Hope and Grandpa Dunstan. They liked the image of having a Christian family, but none of the responsibilities.

I acted like I was okay for Grandpa Dunstan’s sake, and I listened to his preachings of God’s plan for me with much more attention than I paid to my parents, for at least I know that he was sincere both in his faith and in his care for me. He even told me that if I thought it would help, I should go talk to someone and maybe get medication. His defiance against the stubbornness of my parents gave me a little hope and made me realize that I had at least one love in this world.

And for awhile, everything seemed like it was a little better. I was “saved” from death and every day was supposed to be some sort of gift. I went back to work and performing, even got an apartment of my own near to where my grandfather lives. Back to normal, though, was never necessarily a good thing.

I’m almost twenty-two now and it has been just about six months since I was released from the hospital after I tried to end my own loneliness. I now go to the hospital for another reason – to see Grandpa Dunstan. They found that he has colon cancer, which is usually very incurable, but they caught it very early, so he might come out of it fine. Did you know that colon cancer is very hereditary? Well, that’s if I get old enough to get it without my status changing from attempted suicide to suicide.