I walked down that long white hallway. Sat in that bland waiting room. It was empty beside from one other patient. Cold, clinical, with these awful rows of vacant chairs. They where orange chairs. The walls where white. The receptionist had two plastic succulents, and a box of disposable face masks.
A lady called me through. I walked through more white hallways. Through multiple locked doors. To a small room in the centre of this clinical maze. No windows. A computer in the far corner. And 2 blue chairs in the centre. I told her why I was there. And that I didn't want to be.
Words were written down on a single sheet of paper. She used a blunt pencil. No clipboard. Asked me hundreds of questions. Watched me laugh and cry. And told me it's chronic.
Chronic.
Chronic suicidal ideation.
No matter how hard I fight, how hard I beg, how hard I try. These are my thoughts. No one can make them stop. It's been 13 years since I first documented these thoughts. And I was still nieve enough to believe they would stop.
No amount of time can prepare someone for those conversations. For that heartache. The reaching out for help and getting shut down. The isolation.
I'll always think about dying. Always. It's a chemical imbalance, and incorrect chemistry. I can't be fixed, saved, or altered. This is part of who I am. And I hate it.
I left those white hallways. I walked out the exit. And cried the whole way to the car. I can't get better. But I still want to try. And that hurts the most.
I just thought that maybe....
Hopefully...
No.
This is forever.
-Jen x
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