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Fortunately, the landlord found me just in time, and at the hospital I remember waking up as the nurse held me down while she fed a pipe down my throat. I struggled against her and retched violently as I tried desperately to pull the tube out of my own stomach. I could feel it dragging along my insides. My efforts, of course, made the nurse angry, and she shouted at me to stop while she tried again. I was annoyed, as being asleep had made me forget the feelings I had been experiencing; I was so disappointed to be awake again and to have to face it all. As I fought her off, I looked at the lights above my head and my body suddenly became floppy, without anything left to give. I fell into a deep sleep, which lasted three days, and when I finally woke up, I had never felt so embarrassed and ashamed as the reality of what I had done suddenly hit me.
The week following my suicide attempt was an absolute nightmare. On my release from hospital I returned to see my psychiatrist, and he decided that I needed more intensive treatment. I was initially quite pleased to be going into a psychiatric ward, as I felt that at last I would get the help I needed and I could at least get a diagnosis. The reality, however, was extremely different, and although the doctors and nurses were kind, I was surrounded by schizophrenics and people with bipolar. Some were extremely ill and were withdrawing from alcohol and drug addictions, which was painful to see and extremely frightening. One particular lady I secretly named the ‘pacer’, as she wandered endlessly backwards and forwards while chatting away to herself. She seemed to be having her very own conversation and was even answering herself in a different voice, whilst her husband looked on despairingly. She seemed so normal in some ways and yet so damaged at the same time, and I desperately wanted to reach out to her and help her through it, which of course was futile as I was clearly in need of help myself.
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