Su💊c💊de Attempt💊💊💊💊💊💊💊💊💊💊💊 in Strangely Estranged

Today marks the one year anniversary of my Whitney Houston meets Jason Seaver attempt. I did not know about the death of actor Alan Thicke’s until a few days into my stay at the Quail Run Behavioral Punishment Hospital.

His death was significant to me because it was supposed to be me. I should have been dead on December 13, 2016, not Alan Thicke. You probably remember him on the TV show Growing Pains. He played the father on the show and my family name is the same as theirs. So many shows seem to mirror things in my life, or maybe it’s just my imagination.

The night of the 12th something came over me, it was like an outside force was guiding me and I was just floating along agreeing with whatever they thought I should do. As the hours went by and still there wasn’t much progress in the plan I could feel the presence become annoyed with me. It was as if this entity had a mission, it’s mission was to get me to commit suicide.

When I was heading over to the Walgreen’s to pick up the Xanax I noticed a Honda Pilot shadowed me the entire way, right into the drive-thru even. May have been just a coincidence, but an odd one at that. Wonder if G_d was driving or was just the co-Pilot.

I was trying to clean up the house of any embarrassing items that I would not want the police or family to find. That was taking a lot of time and again the entity kept prodding me, but not physically. It was like mental prodding, as if your father was there making sure you complete your very important homework. Though, this was much, much more important than any homework could have been.

I wanted everything nice for when the paramedics arrived and also it was a good way to stall the whole plan or maybe even get out of it. I soon found that it would have none of that. For whatever reason, I submitted to it’s apparent authority and went along.

When I began to feel the first signs of getting drowsy, I went into a rush mode knowing if I waited too long the spa might not be warmed up enough or I might pass out while cleaning. I made it into the spa around 1 am or so on the 13th. The Xanax really kicked in and I was feeling good and not at all worried about death. I thought about my life and how strange things had turned out. How before I took the “red” pill I would have NEVER EVER thought of suicide.

I couldn’t understand why anyone would kill themselves. Surely there’s a way out of any situation I thought. But taking the red pill took away my escape routes. The red pill made the world inescapable. Wherever I ran, if there was a satellite in the sky the entity would be there as well. I had tried escaping several times and sure enough, they followed and were so obvious about it that I could not deny it. Fed up, I just returned home.

Back to the spa… just as I was about to doze off and sink below the waterline a thought jarred me awake. I must say goodbye to my partner, my best friend in the entire world, the only person I could really trust and not doubt, my life since 1986. I decided I would just cuddle with him a bit and not actually say goodbye, because that would make him upset obviously.

As I crawled into bed and I could feel his smooth warm skin next to mine an even greater sense of comfort and relaxation came over me. I was with the only person who would stand by me no matter what. The one person who knows me better than anyone on the planet and loves me more than any other. It was a done deal, I could not get up. I wanted to be there for eternity.

Unfortunately I woke up in the emergency room with loud ringing medical equipment going off all around me as I waited for a room at the Hotel Crowleyfornia. Not that I have any issues with A.C., it’s just that some of his followers are a bit overwhelming to me. For whatever reason, I sensed quite a few of them on staff and in the patients. It really felt like everyone there, but I know that couldn’t be possible. Could it?

The nurses kept pushing pills on me as did the other patients. The patients would make comments about all the great meds they had to make you relax and the nurses were all too ready to provide you a dose. The pharmacy prescribed me like four times the normal amount of the psych drug I was taking and by the end of my stay I couldn’t write legibly and could barely speak. My legs were shakey and it was difficult to walk normally.

My partner thought it was the Xanax overdose that caused brain damage. But I was fine going into the hospital. It was all of the wrong medications these people seemingly purposely were giving me. They would not let me take a lower dose of the psych meds.

I shared room 311 with a Hispanic guy named Ramon that seemed like he might be a gang member. He was always in a bad mood. At times though I wondered if the whole thing wasn’t a big act. It was hard to tell… the story of why he was there in the first place didn’t make sense. I guess he was supposedly a victim of child abuse from his father. In turn, other people in the community had labeled him a pedophile having heard he was once abused as a child.

He told his story in several group therapy sessions. He said he had to kill a pedophile or homosexual in order to clear his name and not have his community think he’s a molester. The whole story seemed fishey. Especially the last day when we were both to get out at the same time. About four hours before discharge he put on a t-shirt that was obviously against policy. In huge letters across the front and back it advertised himself as a “Hitman” “Assassin” and I think it even gave a dollar amount. I might have believed the story if there hadn’t been so many other wacky stories from other patients and workers.

One of those strange things was the “Son of Sam” photograph from his arrest. It was taped to the front of a medical folder. It was the medical folder that was next to my medical folder. The folder I had to sign four or five times a day. After a few time I noticed the photo and knew who it was. I asked the nurse to stop there and asked why his photo was in there. She claimed it was another patient. But that patient was not anywhere I could see. There was only one nurses station on the floor. She became annoyed and cited HIPPA privacy policy.

The hospital doctor, for whatever reason seemed terrified of me. Or at least just a bit nervous. I’ve had this happen many times before. It is my hunch that the grape vine tells great tales of fright and might. Beware of this one… I’m not sure what they’re saying but I sure would love to know how I could be that scary. Ask my partner, he’ll laugh and say I have difficulty killing bugs, let alone people.

So a year has gone by and I don’t feel suicidal. Especially knowing I’d have to go back there if I were unsuccessful. I’d rather not try again than risk another stay at Quail Community Theater Group Hospital.. you’d better Run.

Things really haven’t improved much. I am having great difficulty living in the “red” pill world having grown up on “blue”. It’s quite a transition and I wonder how many make it from one side to the other without psychosis.

Last updated December 12, 2017