Hi guys, Well this is becoming quite regular, enjoy it (It might not last). With a little help from Panda, here’s a little story that has been playing around in my head for a while. Enjoy guys 🙂
“… AND I SHALL VISIT MY DIVINE WRATH UPON THIS HEATHEN PLACE! REPENT! FOR YOUR LORD WALKS AMONGST YOU! …”
My eyes flutter as I regain consciousness and realize the screams were not from my nightmares but from my roommate, Patrick, who is experiencing another episode of schizophrenia today. *sigh* I get up and try to make my way to the bathroom without Patrick noticing me. I’m not in the mood to worship him today, his episodes make him think he’s Ra; the Egyptian god of the Sun. Maybe I should worship him; at least he’s a much more accessible god than the one I’m supposed to be serving.
“… REPENT, LEST I GAZE DOWN UPON YOU WITH THE WRATH OF THE SUN! REPENT AND PAY HOMAGE TO YOUR SUN LORD! …”
This was not where I pictured I’d be a week after I walked into Boots pharmacy and bought ten packets of ibuprofen. I had researched extensively and I knew the correct dose to take to ensure hospitalization, but not death.
Why? You may ask.
That’s right, I wanted, no needed everyone to fawn over me for once. I wanted my parents to finally realize that money was not a substitute for their time or attention. Oh, I enjoyed the money, a whole lot. It’s what made sure I had all the better things of life, but I craved more, I wanted Mr. and Mrs. Ogunja to want to spend time with me. So I worked up the courage, and executed my plan.
After swallowing about 10 tablets of ibuprofen with vodka, I picked up my phone, dialed 199 and told them what I had done. I laid back and waited for the ambulance and all the attention. The only drama I got was my flat mates and hostel manager watching as the medics wheeled me into the ambulance. No one came with me to the hospital.
After pumping my tummy, the doctor said: “Mr. Ogunja, we have cause to believe you’re suicidal, for this reason, we are referring you immediately to a facility that caters to suicidal patients like you, your parents have wired us enough money to cater to your every whim”. I felt the blood drain from my face as I was transported from the hospital to my new home.
And here I am.
This place, which I have called home for the past month, has been hell. I thought I had it bad, but… now I know what hell is like. See, what the doctor failed to tell me is that the facility also serves as a recovery center for different kinds of people- recovering drug addicts trying to become clean, beautiful ladies suffering from chronic eating disorders, people with mental health issues like my roommate… and then me. I have not come across any other person like me in this place, no one.
My nights are filled with screams from the guys with the withdrawal symptoms, daytime is filled with stories of how people got here, lame exercises like coloring or meditation practice and meal times (my favorite) are highlighted by dramatic refusals to take drugs, puking sounds from the loo and desperate attempts to catch the attention of the girls eating on the other side.
Anyways, the point is that I have failed. Throughout my one month here, my parents have only called once. ONCE, and that was to say they had sent more money. I wish I could have money adopt me officially or something. I’m really, really confused. But in the midst of this confusion, I have come up with a plan. You see, when Patrick is not thinking he is God, he’s quite the intelligent guy. We have formulated a plan to get out of this place. And I have an extra plan to ditch him with enough money as soon as we’re out.
The plan has come together very nicely and although I can’t tell you when it will happen, it is really soon. Someday soon, you shall have a suicidal, attention seeking brat and an intelligent, schizophrenic lovable guy on the loose. You have been warned.
My name is Emmanuel Ogunja and I promise I’m not crazy.
I’m coming home.