There’s just 3 of us in the room. Plus a guard on the door and a watcher in the corner.
I try to convince myself that’s for them and not me.
Both other occupants are teenagers.
One on a comedown and one struggling with their mental health.
I tell myself I dont belong in a room with them. But I recognise the one as who I was at that age.
I just didn’t end up here back then.
Maybe I should have.
Maybe I’d have got the help I needed it would have stopped me from doing what I did today.
But of course I need to be in this room after today’s actions.
It wasn’t a moment of madness like I thought it would be. When I got dressed this morning I chose clothes that wouldn’t matter if they stained. I’d decided that if I didn’t get the help they keep promising I’d do something to make them hear me.
Or make this all end.
I’m not sure which.
I got the phone call as promised but they didn’t know anything about a referral to the prescription team. For a third time that hadn’t been passed on.
They promised to get back to me by midday.
The call never came.
So I went up stairs.
I sat on the toilet for what felt like an eternity. Looking at the blade.
Cleaning it.
Turning it over and over between my fingers.
I tested it against my arm. See how hard I had to press before it bit, before it drew blood.
This isn’t the person I wanted to be.
I wanted to be strong.
Someone who had confronted these daemons, dealt with them and locked them away like they deserved.
But no matter how hard I tried they kept coming back.
So I let them out the only way I ever learnt how.