The Waiting Room

“Are you sure you won’t hurt yourself?”
“I don’t know”

“How do you feel?”
“I feel empty”

“Wouldn’t it be better if we check you into the hospital so that you are safe.”
Long silence. . .

“Are you sure you won’t hurt yourself”
“I don’t know.”

This was the conversation I had with the new therapist. I told her I thought about ways to kill myself. I thought about jumping into the Hudson River near Columbia. I’ve also thought about jumping in front of a New York City taxi cab. I told her these thoughts. It was pretty. I remember taking the cab to St. Luke’s across from Columbia. It was Monday and I sat in the emergency room. It wasn’t long before they moved me to the psychiatric triage area. It was cold. I remember feeling empty. I don’t know why I was crying. I felt guilty for failing. I felt guilty for not having many friends. I felt guilty, just because of how I was feeling. Waiting in that pale blue room felt like forever. The psychiatrist left when everything was fine. I was alone in the waiting room. There was no one with me, except the security guard. I didn’t call my parents. I didn’t call anyone. That was it.

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