As I continue on my mission to catch up and complete these last few posts in the “Health Activist Writers Month Challenge” (#HAWMC) I bring you post 28/30
The smell of heated milk and burnt toast isn’t a pleasant aroma, sadly it’s one that will never be forgotten.
I do hate hot milk, I often wonder why anybody would want to pour the stinky stuff over a bowl of cornflakes?
Now, Cornflakes with cold milk… It fits, some things just fit!
Well, it seems that most would beg to differ as on this particular morning the horrid smell whiffed through the air, unfortunately waking me from a somewhat restful sleep!
Sitting up I looked around in a somewhat confused state. “Where am I?” was my first thought, shortly followed by my second thought… “What the hell is that awful smell? Oh my god I’m going to be sick”
I was an 11 year old child who swore that it was that nasty aroma of milk and burnt
rubber toast that was to blame for her sudden sickness (some 19 years later I still believe it to be so). However, the doctor with the serious expression upon his face, that stood beside me was quite adamant that the lethal cocktail of prescription drugs I’d willing subjected on my young body, or maybe even the actions needed to remove them was possibly to blame!
Yes, as you may have guessed already, I’m in hospital, a bed in a side room of a colourful children’s ward, walls sporting an aray of children’s drawings and a playroom that was never open!
Looking down at my bruised, tender hand that is connected to a Intravenous line full of saline solution, I shudder at the sight of it, thankful that I have no memory of how it got there!
My mind is a foggy haze, doctors and nurses come and go, reading notes and taking vitals. Each smile but say nothing… Me… I’m to afraid to ask!
As the day commences, a flash of memories greet me, waiting for my mother I feel the need to hide or just run away. “Why did I do such a silly thing?” was something I repeatedly asked myself over and over again… each time I produce the same answer… “I don’t know!”
A moment of madness, an escape, a cry for help, a way to take it all away maybe?
I couldn’t look my mother in the eyes, her face was full of sadness possibly disappointment too, while mine was full of shame.
They wouldn’t let me leave the hospital despite my constant pleads to go home. I had to see a psychologist before it would even be considered.
The psychologist was the very first person (excluding that of myself) who asked me… “why did you do it?”
I’d successfully avoid the question the entire day, I stared blankly into space, lowering my head a tear leaves my eye roles down my cheek before finally dripping from my chin falling to the ground like some leaky tap that needs fixing. Scared they would lock me away I open my mouth yet no words come out. Looking up at his face and into his eyes I wonder what it is that he is thinking.
“I dont know” I suddenly mutter
“Well, Do you wish to die” he asked
I quickly shake my head a little uncomfortable with the question.
“No I don’t”
More silence… Before finally covering my face with my hands I let it all out. Once I no longer needed to see that look of sympathy in his eyes I just couldn’t stop speaking!
Rising up from his chair he leant over and removed my hands from across my eyes.
“It’s OK” he soothed… “Everything is going to be fine”
Post 28/30 in the health activist writers month challenge was to raise awareness for Child mental health (OCD and Bulimia)
Photo credit Wikipedia