“He who has a WHY can bear any HOW.” – Friedrich Nietzsche
If you missed part 1, here’s a nice recap:
- Steve got drunk.
- Had a breakdown on a millionaire’s lawn.
- Apparently told police he was going to commit suicide.
I don’t want to and never will, kill myself.
3:45pm-Tuesday, May 8th, 2012: 3 hours before my infamous gravel nap.
The ambulance ride to Renown hospital was horrible. I felt bad for the EMT who was trying his best to make small talk.
You aren’t alone man, we pick up people everyday who are going through the same thing. It’s the economy, man. Fucking Obama.
I’m glad that my $1500 ambulance ride came with a complimentary political commentary by the REMSA version of Glenn Beck. However, I wasn’t prepared for what he said next-
Why do you want to set yourself on fire and then shoot yourself?
Police say that’s what you told them.
My heart sank, my temples started throbbing, and I grabbed at the bridge of my nose in frustration. That’s when realization set in that I am crazy. It’s been fun to joke about for the past 15 years, jabs by my friends meant to be light-hearted, small breakdowns, etc.
Set myself on fire…and then shoot myself in the head.
Apparently, my suicidal dream involves one-part Richard Pryor and one-part Kurt Cobain. Smells like teen honky.
There is no excuse then, right? It’s set in stone. I’m now the person I would make fun of, some emo-loser who uses self-threatening statements to get attention. I am an 8th grade pudgy, goth girl. I am what Papa Roach sings about. No. Please, no.
At 8:15pm I was dropped off at the hospital, where they put me on the most minimal suicide watch in history. A bare room with nothing in it but a bed to sleep on and a trash can. I had no idea I would be in this room for 36 hours. The nurse would ask me questions every 6 hours or so, and as I said, minimal effort was applied-
Hey, Steve are you doing okay? Gonna kill yourself?
Nope. Doing fine, I hate you.
Sweet. Want a juice or something?
No one could visit me, and I had no access to a phone. After about 20 minutes, your mind starts finding things to do-
My mind decided that I would save $20,000 over the next year and then ditch my old life for Mexico.
This is important to the story because I didn’t realize that forming this idiotic plan meant that I had no intentions of ever killing myself. Let me explain-
- Work hard for a year, raising $10,000-20,000.
- Leave my family and life behind
- Restore old boats in Mexico.
- Drink margaritas
- Start a mariachi band
Not bad right? Nothing says selfish like saying your suicidal, and when that fails, coming up with a make-shift, bad-father decision to leave your old life behind.
I wanted to leave my life behind.
My perception of my existence was that I had plateaued.
- A lifetime of short, shitty jobs since I was 16
- Failed stand-up
- Failed goals
- Feelings of boredom with my daily routine
- Being an idiotic, douche who couldn’t realize how good he really had it (this was learned later.)
I didn’t want to commit suicide.
I didn’t want to ditch my family for Mexico.
What I wanted, was change.
Sadly, the only change in my life had been thrown in Coinstar machines for beer money.
After 36 hours in a room by myself I finally got the change I wanted…I was going to the Northern Nevada Adult Mental Health Center. Yes! A change of scenery!
Irony- Arriving sane in a mental clinic will turn you insane after 4 days.
I arrived at 3am, took a shower, got into my crazy patient outfit, and passed out. I was then woken up at 7am by the center’s own racist, homophobic, human alarm-clock who was shouting-
I see a faggot and I’ll punch em’ in his fucking dick. Exit only, motherfucker!
These would be the first words I would hear from the vast array of patients in the common room. In an odd twist of fate, this person would pretty much change my view on life.
Fucking Obama supporting faggots, fuck that. It’s a good thing I’m locked up in here, because with him being in town today I’d- blah, blah, racism, homophobia, fishing, blah, I’ll support gay marriage when I can marry my cousin, blah, blech.
I didn’t talk to any of the 9 other patients for the days I was in there.
They called me, “The quiet one.” It was the only thing I would laugh about while I was institutionalized.
The only sentence I had with another patient was when I was sitting alone doing a crossword puzzle. [Note: I fucking suck at crosswords.] A mid-30′s Asian lady came over to my table, sat down, looked at me and ever-so-softly asked-
What are you in for?
[Keeping my head down] Um, Depression.
I ASKED FOR XANAX AND THAT FUCKING CUNT NURSE GAVE ME VITAMINS!
Oh my lord! Get me out of here!
It gave me no options, I would read books in my ‘room’ the rest of my stay, and that’s…when it happened.
Ignorant, racist guy was getting ready to be released, and was freakishly happy about it. He was cheering. Dancing. Knocking magazines off the tables. He was downright gleeful.
Fuck yeah! I’m outta here you crazy fuckers! Enjoy shitty food and daytime TV, assholes.
He then turned, chucked a book at me, and said-
See if you can figure it out, didn’t fucking make sense to me.
It was called, “Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl” and it made me realize that I’m a unappreciative, hipster-douche who takes way too much for granted.
To be continued…