A Bowler hat and Roses

Warning; Themes of Suicide and Mental Health.

I can't even remember why I did it, something to do with my boyfriend? My best friend? Maybe I was just tired of living the way I was, or I wanted attention, or something.

That's how it usually goes with me though, I'll make those moves and then forget why I ever did, the doctors say it's my mind trying to erase the feelings attached to the memories, but I can't even be sure of that anymore. After all, these are the same doctors that have taken 3 years to diagnose chronic pain and mental health issues, their diagnoses change constantly, ranging from mild to utterly insane.

I know, I know, they're human and I should be kinder, but if I wanted 20 different diagnoses, I'd have asked Google or my Grandmother.

But that night, it's burned into my memories, despite my intoxication, I remember clearly sitting on my bed, with its leopard print blanket, staring at the box of Seroquel, waiting for the courage to swallow what I had and get it over with. I'm fairly sure that night I'd argued with a few people, and spent 15 minutes staring into the mirror, blaming my reflection for all of my lifes problems, which were many, and mostly based on my own lack of control.

As I listened to whatever Marilyn Manson song was blasting into my ears through my iPhone, I contemplated how it might feel, whether it would hurt or whether it would be as romanticised as the movies, someone young swallowing a handful of pills and drifting off into the darkness. I think I was crying, but then again, memories are deceiving.

I put the first handful into my mouth, chasing it down with half a bottle of wine. Followed by another, and then a third, which I chased down with whatever was at hand after the wine was gone. I don't know if I wanted to die, but I know I wanted the shit to stop. The thoughts, the feelings that I had no grasp on, the way everything felt so heavy, like I was carrying an extra hundred pounds on my body.

I don't know when I sent those texts to my friend and boyfriend, but they weren't ones I wanted a response to, I can remember that much. I ignored the vibrations of repeated calls, texts and even a knock at the door. It felt like my body was slowly drifting into sleep, and I didnt want anything to disturb that feeling. I glanced over at the door, to see a figure standing in the doorway, tall but portly, wearing a bowler hat. Other than the shape, I couldn't make anything else out about them, it was as if they were made of shadows, sucking in the light around them to actually exist. I could tell they were masculine, but the energy I felt was warm, welcoming and distinctly feminine. My mind raced, as fast as it could do after a box of anti-psychotics, "Is this a hallucination?" I wondered, as the figure slowly approached the bed, sitting gently next to me. As it's weight settled onto the mattress, I could feel a warmth washing over me, as if everything was going to be ok, that I was making the right decision.

It was at that moment that the red and blue flashing lights of the ambulance cut through the window. I heard a commotion outside, but stared at this figure, asking it to take me wherever it wanted to, and do so quickly, before they came, before they sent me back into the hell I was in.

The figure slowly rose, gently shaking its head. I reached out for it, but it had already made for the door. As it exited and walked down the hallway, the paramedics entered, passing next to the figure, but not noticing its existence. They did the usual, grabbed me and rolled me into the ambulance, one of them made a comment about it being a "waste of time" for them to be there, as if I was the one that called them, as if my life was actually as worthless to them as it was to me. I'm fairly sure I said "well then just leave me here" but I can't be sure.

I blanked between home and the hospital, which, given the attitude of the paramedics, was probably for the best. I awoke under those horrid fluorescent bulbs that every public hospital seems to have, with the realisation that I hadn't succeeded in my attempt slowly settling in, making the world heavier, darker and unleashing waves of shame over my already damaged psyche.

As I stared at the ceiling, hoping that this was the other side, I noticed the air conditioning duct changing shape, definitely a hallucination, and an elderly woman standing nearby, maybe not a hallucination, but comforting in a strangely eerie way. There was a scent of perfume lingering around her, a musky, older scent that I can only assume meant that she was someones grandmother; an oddly comforting thought amidst the drug induced confusion and emotional turmoil.

I was lapsing in and out of conciousness, but I could hear everything going on around me in vivid detail. When the nurses asked me a question, I would reply, thinking that I was awake, only to be awoken by that horrible chest knuckle rub that they do to rouse unresponsive patients, with them standing over the bed repeating the questions, appearing more and more annoyed with my half annunciated responses.

I remember them asking me "What else have you taken", to which I responded with "Nothing, only the seroquel", I must have repeated that about 6 times, before one of the nurses scraped my tongue and ran a drug test. I guess they finally believed me after that, but it didnt stop the interrogation, or convince them that I didn't need 3 security guards near the bed.

I reminded myself that this was how the Australian healthcare system treated people who didn't want to live, or felt that urge to find the eternal rest that sounds so lovely when you're so tired. I found myself drifting again, occasionally I'd see that old woman, sometimes she'd be close to me, other times she'd be walking past, looking into the bed I was currently laying in. I wondered where the bowler hat wearing figure had left to, and whether this old woman was real or not, she was wearing a pink dressing gown, and when she walked, it almost looked like she floated. Her grey, whispy hair draped over her shoulders and bangs almost hiding her piercing blue eyes.

The last time I saw her, she was right next to the bed, holding my hand gingerly, a sad, knowing smile on her face. She stroked my forehead, and whispered something to me, I can't for the life of me remember what she had said, but I know it made me feel at peace, as if someone in that hospital knew what it was like to feel so much internal pain, that you simply couldn't continue.

I awoke again, this time on the uncomfortable rubber mattress that lay in the cell rooms of every psych ward I've ever been in. The cold air circulating out of the air conditioner on high, the empty room. The door with the tiny glass window that a nurse would occasionally peer through to make sure I hadn't somehow hurt myself while strapped to a rubber mattress on the floor.

I stared at the ceiling, wishing that I hadn't messaged anyone, no part of me was grateful for waking up.

I asked the nurse, when she came in to give me a half stale ham sandwhich and one of those weird tubs of apple juice, who the old lady was who had been by my side for most of the evening. She looked puzzled, I can quite clearly remember the expression on her face when she said that she hadn't seen anyone near me. When I described her, the nurses face fell for a split second, before she repeated that no one had been near me, it must have been a side effect of the excessive amount of pills I had swallowed.

I was apparently close to death, thats why they kept asking me the same questions, keeping me awake as much as they could for fear that if I drifted too far into sleep, I may never have returned.

While most of the night is a blur, I still remember the figure in the bowler hat, and the smell of the old woman's perfume, occasionally I'll smell it before I fall asleep at night, a musky rose scent, with undertones of citrus fruits, definitely something a Grandmother would wear.