This kid in the psych ward with me–we were admitted the same day–after 3 days in a coma from a botched overdose, said none of the meds worked. He was tired of taking all these drugs that didn’t work. Smoked tons of weed while taking them, though, which lessens their efficacy. And he’d go off the drugs after 2 months, when many are just starting to work. Made me wonder if he wanted to get better.

And I know for some people suicide is the only happy option. Surviving family members feel their presence in dreams saying they’re finally at peace. I believe that.

He was an artist, drawing all the time with crayons ’cause we couldn’t have sharp objects. Movies always get that part wrong. His parents and brother came every night during visiting hours and sat with him among the rest of us. They loved him so much. Not embarrassed so that they’d rather sit back in the eating area like my ex and parents.

We didn’t really talk that week, but played some Uno with this cool girl in for a heroin OD. We got this broken bird– unresponsive, hearing voices, murmuring to them–to play with us. The heroin chick was so gentle with her, we all were, but she helped her pick which card to play. I’m crying here in public remembering it.

Anyway, this kid and I were being released the same morning after our “family meetings,” mine with the ex. We were the only two in the patient lounge and on opposite sides of the room, our bags at our feet. All of a sudden he said, “Are you scared?” “Yes. Are you?” “Yeah.” Then we just looked at each other until a nurse called my name. I think about him often. Wonder if he’s finally at peace.

Lack of communication is unhealthy.

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