What made you do this?

A lot of people say they hate hospitals.  They smell and feel like death.
I hate hospitals.  To me, they smell and feel like pain.

I can't even comprehend the pain I should have been in that night, drowned out by an overwhelming feeling of nothingness.  

Liquid charcoal.  I couldn't believe people come up with such things.  I couldn't believe anything.  I couldn't believe I let myself get so out of control.  
"It helps absorb toxins in your liver.", I overheard the nurse say.  
Sitting there.  Pretending to feel strong enough.  Pleading with my father, "How long until I can go home?"
Liquid charcoal is perhaps the most disgusting thing in the world.  A sickly color of gray.  The texture of paint.  An indescribable taste.
I had attempted to choke down the huge cup of it.  Twice.  
"This is not good enough," another nurse said, watching me vomit repeatedly, after every single sip.  
"We have to do this another way.", she continued.

Another way.  The second most painful experience of my life.  
Two more nurses were called in.  One held me down on the bed.  
The other, busy working a tube down my nose.
"Swallow while it's going in.  It will be less painful."
Less painful my ass.
I could still taste the charcoal run down my throat.
All I could feel was my nose burning as the tube was ripped out.  Causing me to vomit more.  
But not too much to go through it again.
I calmed down as my nose stopped bleeding.

Hours pass, it seems.  All I know is that I've been awake far too long.
"We're taking you somewhere else."  Another unrecognizable voice.
Every single person seems to have the same face.  

Half an hour later I arrive at a different hospital.
It finally sets in that this isn't going to end any time soon.
It takes three hours to get admitted.  Six in the morning.
My dad leaves to go get ready for work.  God forbid you miss a day because your daughter is in the hospital, right?

Sitting in my room, watching television, thinking "Hey, this isn't so bad, I miss a science test."
Enter the therapists.  I had been answering the question all night.
"What made you do this?"
I answer with what I think will make the most sense.
"I just broke up with my boyfriend.  My mom also just lost her job."

They seem to accept all of it.  Like I'd ever tell them that I didn't know why.  
Trying to convince them that there was at least a reason behind all of this.  
"I'm not crazy."  I repeated that in my mind over and over again.  It's wasn't real.  I wasn't here.  This is a dream.
They ask me the normal string of questions they use when trying to determine what type of crazy you are.  It's sickening.

I hate it when they stare at my arms.  The cuts weren't real either.
They must not have been, they faded two months later with what they gave me.
All they seemed to do was grab my arms.  Tighter and tighter as I'd try to break free.

"How long have you been doing this?"
"A couple months, I guess."
"What did you use to cut?"
"A razor, dumbass."

They leave eventually.  Off to see the other suicidal freaks that were close to death somewhere in the hospital.
My mom comes.  Seeing her leaves me shocked.
I can't help but thinking, "Maybe she does give a damn..."  At least until the nurse leaves.
"Cutting?  Overdosing?  How stupid are you!?"
"Great to see you too, Mom."
She wasn't hurt at all.  The look in her eyes was nothing but anger.
Earlier, staring at my dad, I could see guilt, anger, confusion, fear.  At least he cared.

She went off for awhile to talk to the shrinks.  
And there I sit.  An angry, confused, betrayed thirteen year old kid.
Freshly diagnosed with Severe Clinical Depression and Severe Anxiety Disorder.
I found it slightly amusing, I had known that all along.  My brother's voice entered my head, "No shit, Sherlock."

After recommending me for further therapy, and perhaps sending me to a different sort of hospital for awhile, I got to leave.
Nobody knows.  Those doctors, my family, my friends.  I hear it every night.
"What made you do this?"
Subconsciously, it was surely a lame attempt at ending my life.  No other real explanation.
But to put it plain and simply, I just couldn't stop taking the pills.  I didn't want to stop.  I didn't try to die.
The voice in my head, "Just take a few more.  You can stop after you're done with your drink."
Pills and alcohol certainly don't mix.  I never meant to do it.