This piece originally appeared in The Drunken Canal.
When I found out that your girlfriend was dead, I made a plan. I decided to set off for the next world. Once I got there, I would find whoever was in charge and explain that there had been a mistake. Your girlfriend, who was young, and beautiful, and loved, was supposed to be alive. Whereas I was more than ready to die. As proof I could offer both my recent journals and the contents of my stomach. Clearly someone had made a disastrous clerical error. I should be dead, and she should be allowed to come home to you.
In retrospect this was such a rich girl delusion. Hello, I would like to speak to the manager of Death Itself. But I was serious. I had the razor blade ready.
The hospital they sent me to was pretty bad. They put me in the personality disorders ward. One girl was so suicidal that she wasn’t even allowed a pillowcase. She spent most of her time praying, which depressed me. Like she was waiting for god to send her an email saying: I HAVE ABANDONED YOU. Patients who were particularly difficult – screaming, weeping etc., were sedated and placed in The Quiet Room. If we behaved, we were allowed outside for thirty minutes each day, under nurse supervision.
I called you once from the phone in the hallway, but because of the ECT I don’t remember what we spoke about.
Later, when I asked, you said: oh, nothing much. Just like, small talk.
You fucking liar.
I was there for six weeks. I got ECT every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. When they decided I was done, I went back to my parents’ house. I spent a month watching Criminal Minds and reading my high school poetry textbook. Then I got a job at a boutique that my mom’s friend had opened with the money from her divorce, selling ugly jewelry to other divorced women. During my lunch breaks, I slept in my car.
I called to wish you happy birthday.
You said: I’m glad to hear you’re doing better.
Even though I didn’t actually say that.
My therapist told me: you have so much love to give to a person who actually wants to receive it!
But I knew that wasn’t really true. This love was all yours – hand-crafted, non-refundable, indestructible.
On the way to the hospital, the ambulance drivers strapped me down to the gurney. You don’t have to do that, I told them. I’m just sad. I’m not crazy.
I asked if they would turn on the radio. I couldn’t move at all and I was trying not freak out about it. The song that played was a girl begging someone to love her, but in a cheerful and catchy way. Sometimes even the most corporate, soulless shit burrows into you. The station played that same song two more times before we got to the hospital. It was around midnight.
Wow, I said. This place looks haunted as shit.
The guy who had strapped me down was like, Yeah, good luck.
A nurse came out with a wheelchair. I didn’t think I needed it, but I was so tired that I fell asleep while they wheeled me to my room.
I can’t remember what that song was. I can’t even remember any of the lyrics to look it up. Maybe that’s for the best. Maybe if I heard it again, I would really go insane.
