Clinic Part Four

This is it tramps and ladies. This is where it all ends. My first story on this blog. It was a journey and so far it has been quite a journey. It has almost been a week on this website, I have never really done this on my own before. Like, comment, and follow, this is A.B. and I really feel better.
eastridge8_1

I was given dinner and a new change of clothes, basic red scrubs. “Dinner” was a flat chicken breast with grill marks, baked beans that had corrupted everything on the plate, some sort of noodle salad thing that looked awful, and a spork to eat it all. I was starving, they had run out of PB and J in purgatory and I couldn’t have cheese. I did eat everything on the Styrofoam plate except the salad stuff. And of course everything was cold.

Continue reading “Clinic Part Four”

Clinic Part Three

I think I am going to try and have happy days at least three times a week. This is not one of those days… But hey, Sunday was pretty good right? This A.B. I’m better now.

I shifted around in the chair for about an hour before they called me back up to the ring of desks. A blonde man was going to further process me now. He asked for my insurance card, which was in my wallet. After the whole ordeal of retrieving the card, he went through more paperwork.

“He’s got private insurance,” he explained to the others, mostly women, working with him.

Apparently that was rare, most had Access healthcare from the government I thought. Once I was processed, the blonde man, whose name I don’t remember, started to treat my wound. He put rubber gloves on, removed the tape and sprayed it with antibacterial spray. I grit my teeth as it fizzed.

“What did you use?” he asked.

“A razor. I took it apart.” I stumbled over the words like I would walking through a hallway full of trip wire.

“Why did you do it?”

“I was nervous.”

“Why didn’t you try to do something else to cope?”

Because nothing else gets attention like sliced flesh. Some were for show and the hidden ones were for punishment. Years of religious upbringing had taught me that the way I thought about death, and most other simple aspects of life were wrong. So, cutting was a correction.

But I said, “I dunno.”

He shook his head, disappointed I suppose.

At about this time, the women he worked with were talking about some breathing test they had taken.

One woman with a gruff voice said, “Yeah, it told me I had the lungs of a seventy year old. I couldn’t believe it. Then my friend said ‘Well, it’s because you smoked meth for all those years.’”

I didn’t belong here.  Continue reading “Clinic Part Three”

Clinic Part Two

I have had one comment that somebody enjoyed this so I will continue. Thanks so much to all the followers I have got already. You don’t know how great it is to get recognition from people that have just met me or have never met me in person. I can’t believe how well my first day went. This A.B. and I am so happy to be alive.

It was another two weeks before I could get an appointment with SMI. I knew almost immediately that I didn’t belong there. We had found out somehow that SMI was like social security for those unable to work because of their mental illness, no money but free health care. The waiting room was a dirty linoleum postage stamp and the building itself was tucked away in a corner of a lonely plaza that was more parking lot than buildings.   

The patients or the sick, or whatever you want to call them were unsettling. A majority of them wore sweat pants and Velcro shoes, most of them didn’t look like they had the faculties to manage laces. One man stared headlong into the abyss of space. Occasionally he was led to a different area or into the adjacent conference room.

I didn’t belong here. 

Continue reading “Clinic Part Two”

Clinic Part One

Enjoy, squirm, like, hate, I don’t care. I know my stuff can be pretty dark for such a light title to a website. I am a very sad dog, but this is from a very sad time in my life. Post in the comments if you liked it. Tell me what you want to see and I will provide. There will be more coming if you like this kind of stuff.

Dedicated to my mother

I was so nervous to go to the clinic that the night before I cut myself so deep I could see the stark white connective tissue of my arm. I was instantly reminded of my father’s story of when he tried to kill himself. He said fat leaked out of his arm. I could picture the fat pouring out like slugs, but that didn’t happen with me. Mine wasn’t deep enough. And mine was made in anxiety like all the other little cuts that neighbored it, I pressed too hard with this one. Although it’s hard to describe every fish of thought in the stormy ocean that was my mind that night. I now wanted to live, because I wrapped my arm in a red towel, I’ll never forget that irony.
It wouldn’t stop bleeding. It stung, for my insides were forced to feel the outside air. Blood beads up from small slices, but rushes forward bravely when the gates of skin are left swinging. Every time I carefully removed the towel, the blood swelled like soap from a sponge. All I could see was scenarios where I had to wake my parents, so I would have to get stitches. How would I explain a cut so deep without my mother yelling?


I searched through our cabinets of the kitchen, a feat much more difficult with only one hand. I couldn’t find gauze or medical tape for the life of me, so I proceeded to scavenge through our junk drawers of which we have several. The kitchen light was bright white compared to the pitch black outside. The last time I dared to look at a clock it was four. I was used to this time, lived through many a night being awake at this time. I finally found what I wanted, a roll of masking tape. I took it and wound it around my arm. Then one last piece over the laceration itself. Somehow, at some time when the light was dim through my bedroom window I went to sleep. I slept.

Continue reading “Clinic Part One”