I woke up confused, angry, and with a desire to take the biggest shit of my life in the hospital. For the record, that shit came out black from the charcoal they made me chug that morning. I was confused as to where I was and, more specifically, why my sweatpants didn’t fit anymore because some idiot had decided to cut the string out of the waistband. I was angry because I didn’t want to exist and because I felt like a fuck up. I mean, what kind of a loser can’t even successfully kill themselves? And taking that shit? It was the most satisfying feeling I’d had in a long time.
Some nurse had woken me up at seven in the morning because I had to eat breakfast as per hospital protocol. I told her to “fuck off”. I knew I had taken the pills late the night before, so I couldn’t have had enough time to sleep. She said something pretentious and snide like, “I’m going to have to tell the doctor about this.” Good. Do it. Bitch.
A few hours later I met with the crazy doctor. He asked me why I was there. Umm, I don’t know, doc. Probably because I tried to kill myself and my well-meaning best friend dragged my ass to the ER. Oh, and for some reason, New York State gave the hospital permission to lock me in the psych ward for a week. Why the fuck do you think I’m here? He gave me some bullshit meds that made me feel empty and unable to eat. I ended up losing five pounds that week without even trying. (Success?) Every night they made me take two Ambien. It gave me a feeling way better than being drunk. I wished all week that they would give me more.
I slept most of that first day, or tried to at least. I figured that I’m high functioning enough to not need to go to group sessions about basic living skills. No, I don’t want to watch a bunch of crazies put on clown make up, and I sure as hell am not sharing eye shadow with anyone. I refused to leave my room and called my best friend to tell her to bring me some decent reading material. “The Little Engine That Could” is a little too quick of a read for me. That same dumb nurse said her same dumb line again: “I’m going to have to tell the doctor about this.” Well, the doctor can shove it.
My sorority “sisters” came to visit and check up on me. Only my best friend had a normal conversation with me. She told me about her day and gossiped with me as if we weren’t in the fucking loony bin. She was even thoughtful enough to refill my birth control prescription and bring me comfy clothes for the week. The sorority president looked at me like I was a disgrace. Or maybe she was just constipated. I’ll never know for sure; I didn’t ask.
The next weekend I came back home to the sorority house. I didn’t tell anyone for a while where I’d been. Not because I was embarrassed, but because people are too sheltered and shit like this makes them feel awkward. But after a month or so, the story just kind of came out to everyone, mostly through the bitches I personally told gossiping about how sad my life is. Fuck off. My life is great. I just have fucked up brain chemistry, thanks.
My “sisters” never look me in the eye anymore, except for the few who actually care about me. I’m not normal anymore because I admit I’m depressed. I guarantee a significant percentage of them are depressed as well. If you have to be in a constant state of drunk to feel alive, you’re probably dying inside. The point is, my “sisters” are a bunch of frauds when they preach about “caring about others” and “helping members through difficult times in their lives.” They should probably tell potential new members that they only want them for their money (we need a new kitchen, duh) and for their image (drunk party girl in real life, classy prude on Facebook). That’s what sisterhood is, right? Right.