Sam Paul - Why I Committed Suicide

I shouldn’t spew at my parents though. If I was my kid I would have kicked my ass from here to Mexico by now. Stealing their money was an impulsive egotistical moment that has only made things worse in a situation none of us are prepared to deal with.

I still feel pretty abandoned with Jen being in and out of the hospital so much, there’s no shortage of selfishness and justification I can tap into to meet myneeds. I scare myself with my newfound capacity to be ruthless.

I’ve always liked the way people cheer when an injured sports player gets taken off the field. It invokes that base human instinct to cringe at the thought of our own mortality. The way most of us are wired, we genuinely don’t want to see anyone get hurt or killed. We hear enough news about children dying or fireman being killed while trying to save lives and it’s all the same damn thing. Cheering for a felled sports hero is really just an extension of those emotions. In fact I think it’s one of our most important release mechanisms. We cheer because of all the unpreventable cruelties that life offers to the innocent. When we can witness someone getting hurt and then get up and walk off the field it’s almost fulfilling in a way. A person has accidentally injured themselves for the sake of our entertainment and we cheer them for their sacrifice. It’s the one area where most of our public feelings of dread can be transformed into excited relief in an instant. Our excitement and cheers are fueled by relief, not just for the injured athlete but for ourselves.

I awoke this morning to the smell of plastic pillows in a not uncomfortable bed, in a room that was not familiar to me in the least. It had the smell of institution pillows, in the sort of institution where they give you pillows. I barely remembered how I got here but I instinctively knew that it is a good thing I’m here. The morning grog dissolved quickly enough for me to sum up my surroundings and summarize yesterday’s hell.

In a moment of temporary (in)sanity I finally got the courage to go downstairs and ask my mom to help me. I merely told my mom what she already knew and didn’t want to hear. My body was hurting worse than I could ever remember it hurting. I could feel painful friction from my joints when I moved any of my appendages. The simple act of opening my eyelids shot painful spikes of light straight through my retinas and into my brain. It felt like I was falling onto a dull wooden stake and driving its splintered shaft straight into my eyes over and over. My stomach was cramping in knots and all that would come out of me was evil green bile from the wrong direction. The sweats started and I could feel each follicle of my hair as it slowly tore the flesh on my scalp and grew outwards. I knew I was in for it bad this time and I knew that I didn’t want to have to go through the long arduous journey of trying to get out of the house and score just to feel human.

I had been going through severe withdrawals while trying to pretend like everything was okay since I “quit” after they caught me stealing their money last week. Of course I didn’t fucking quit, and when every last bit of cash I could come up with was gone the sickness started. This was about a week after I was supposed to be through with feeling bad. It’s sadly ironic that I had to pretend to be feeling withdrawals while I was still using and then I had to pretend to be well while trying to kick.

My mom freaked, but she found some loophole in my dad’s insurance that got me into this rehab where they’ve given me some nice pills that make me feel almost okay. The name of the place is called “Wood Haven” or “Wood Harbor” or “Wood-something-or-other” so you know it’s a North Dallas fancy-schmancy facility. At least I’m well enough to write something again. This place is mostly full of rich corporate execs or their kids who are addicted to something or other. There are even a few Dallas Cowboys in here serving their mandatory league rehab time after testing positive. Nate Newton’s down the hall, but he gets to stayin his room all day and watch TV instead of going to the weird group activities they make everyone else go to.

I talked with one lady for an hour who claims to have a serious marijuana addiction. I tried to be sympathetic to her plight, while we drank the plentiful and expensive hot chocolate the facility provides, but she wasn’t too keen on hearing about how I like to inject syringes of heroin into my veins. Marijuana addiction, give me a fucking break! They have the drug addicts mixed in with the sex addicts (mostly men unfortunately, and they go to different groups) which is kind of fun. The stupid roommate they gave me the other day said some psycho shit to get put on a suicide watch, which means they took everything away from both us that he might possibly use to go psycho. Hopefully Manson will concentrate on hurting himself if he decides to snap instead of his peacefully sleeping roommate.

Most of the people in here are pretty legit. There are lots of alcohol and coke stories from the dads and kids but I have the dubious honor of being the only heroin patient on this wing and I kind of like the stigmatic aura and whispers that follow me around. It’s like I have a sign that says “PELIGRO” on my back. Heroin is another drug that most people only know from what the propaganda machine has fed them. I’m predicting this place will be seeing a lot more heroin-addicted kids in here really soon that are a helluva lot younger than I am, once the N. Dallas problem shows its face. Maybe my groundbreaking rehab program will serve as an example to help somebody else get the right treatment in the future. We’ll see what happens; I’m not too impressed with the therapeutic value that the polished surface of the fancy “Wood Whatever” conveys. This is more like a white collar prison vacation resort with a pool and tennis courts than a facility that can help me.

Rehab was one big expensive motherfucking joke. Don’t get me wrong, I got a lot out of it and I feel a lot better since I got to come down off my withdrawals with their magic “feel better” pills, but for the most part it all boiled down to a bunch of rich crybabies and their horseshit. The hospital made me physically well and one counselor was even able to help me put my addiction into a better perspective. Plus I felt safe there. While I was in the facility there was no paralyzed girlfriend to disappoint, there was no job to worry about and there were no parents wanting to ban me from their lives forever; just a lot of people willing to listen. I met a lot of cool patients that helped give me a better grasp of how big reality actually is and they helped me gain some focus beyond just myself, but there was nothing more for me there.

There was this one counselor named Dave who thankfully didn’t believe me when I casually brushed over how much the accident was bothering me inside. He got me to talk to him about what was really going on in my head and about how overwhelmed I feel with everything. By the time we were done I was blubbering and crying all over again. It gets easier to relive the accident each time I pull off the mental bandages and pick at the scabs but it sure does suck to go through and it leaves me totally worn out. Except for these writings though, Dave’s the only one who’s sat down to ask me to directly talk to him about how the accident was affecting MY life. If it’s any consolation he helped me realize that I’m at least grateful I wasn’t fucked up when the car wrecked. I knew about survivor’s guilt and all that other crap already, but maybe there’s actually something to it. I have to stay by Jenifer, I have to. Her existence keeps me alive and my problems seem insignificant compared to what she’s dealing with on a daily basis. I have to be strong.