May, 11th 2017 — Hope

This article is part of the series “What is like to attempt suicide and fail”. Start there, if you have not read it yet.

Wednesday, D Day + 34
Discharge tomorrow.

I woke up and went straight away to meet with the clinic coordinator, our friend Darth Vader, who’s been treating me really well. “Your discharge will have to happen tomorrow,” he said. Spoke of a few formalities, but told me I can leave as early as 7 a.m. if I want. I was about to ask if I could leave at 6:59 a.m. instead, but remembered of my commitment of being content with things more often.

I decided not to take part in the morning lecture. My mind is no longer here. Actually, I am not sure where it is. If there’s one thing I did these past 35 days was to think. A lot.

One of my friends from University, back in the day, who writes e-mails that go for miles long (and I love her for that), Francis, told me to reread this book, The Alienist, by Machado de Assis. As I do everything she tells me to…, I read it again. What an experience! The book is about this doctor who starts to put everyone from a city inside a hospice named Green House. It was like watching the doctor’s madness from the inside. It reminded me of when I went to Normandy for a photo shoot and watched Saving Private Ryan from the top of a german bunker in Omaha Beach.

Another friend, also from University, who writes me e-mails of several nautical miles (and that I love no less), Kelen, one of these days sent me a 15 minutes long audio. It took me hours to download it with the hamster powered Internet we have at the clinic. When I finally managed to listen, it was like she was Ed Harris from The Truman Show watching each and everyone of my moves, noticing my feelings, even accessing my mood and lucidity. A magic mirror turned my way. That audio helped me a lot.

Sheila, from the same crew of friends, is a psychologist and helped me understand a lot about my behavior. She gave me some invaluable advice of how to seem less crazier than I already am. She called me out. She talked to me daily. Some stuff she taught me will be of great value for the rest of my life.

I was followed in a moving way buy a lot of people. The texts of this diary have been read by more than 15 thousand people (until today). I was graced with hundreds of positive messages. Words of compassion, incentive and kindness. For each one of them I am immensely grateful. Not to mention those who packed my Spotify playlist with so many good songs to listen to while I am in this clinic.

And, now that I am about to leave Local Alcatraz, my head is still wandering. The mind wants to know about next week works, things that need to be done or reviewed. Chores. Adjustments.

I also think of people with whom I would like to reconnect. My parents and siblings, for example. Are we fighting? No, we’re not. It’s just that, there’s no connection. I blame Jesus. They blame the fact that I do not like Jesus, which proves my point. If my family and I were the Beatles, Jesus would be our Yoko Ono. With the difference that Yoko exists.

I think a lot about my father. The only person in my family I have not spoken to since the day I tried to kill myself. We have not exchanged a single word. He just sent a message through my mom, telling me to shave. “He’s very ugly like that,” was his fatherly encouragement. I did trim it a lot before I came here. But I do not know if he knows.

I think of the person who unleashed my knots on April 7. The woman I spent 25 years of my life with. She saved me from the worst. And now she has me alive to say goodbye, finally. From the crazy ex-husband she once loved. Which makes her crazy, too. Green House for the two of us.

I think of my children. And I do not know what to think. How do I go from “worst father” to “anything else father”? Especially with the possibility that they will be far from me. I have some ideas. But the mind walks long distances.

I think of the people I met here. Some patients I made friends with. Some I could only observe from afar. Like the lady with a very grave voice, destroyed by the so much smoking. She paints herself every day in a very exaggerated makeup, almost like a character of Cirque du Soleil.

I think about Mr. Chess, who yesterday, for the first time, refused my offer for a match. “Today I want to see how that other guy plays,” was his answer. A rejection from Mr. Chess as farewell.

There is the schizophrenic that everyone loves, but needs constant supervision because he breaks what he sees ahead.

I remember the girls in the kitchen, the cleaning ladies, the folks at the infirmary. One of them, with the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.

And Maíra, the nutritionist, who is beautiful, popular, cool with everyone she sees and now my friend on Facebook.

After a while wandering through these bands, my mind finally turned to myself. For who I am, who I want and can be. And unlike you who read me and write to me, there is something not so kind to me, my poor head. It answers my questions without an ounce of mercy and with exaggerated pragmatism.

My mind tells me that I’m a lost guy in the world, aimless. A kind of man overboard. It reminds me that I want to be everything I wrote in the last days — master of my destiny, responsible, adventurous, a lover of good things in life, simple, happiness lover. Finally, it shows me the future. Who I really am, years after crossing the blue gates of the clinic. And all I see is nothing. Or rather, I see a huge white room. And in it, a little girl, dressed in red, with a sad face — she’s been visiting my dreams lately. I look at her. She looks back at me, no more than a second. And I can only think about that. The little girl in red. Her name, Hope.

I loved seeing the direct comments on Medium. Please, continue!

I will post more tomorrow. I’ve created a list of songs I’m listening to while inside the psychiatric clinic. To listen, subscribe to the “After Death” playlist on Spotify.

If you want to talk to me, write to rodrigo@bressane.com.

Be kind,
Rodrigo Bressane