The end is just the beginning E-Book

Mika Hollow

• Herausgeber: novum publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 329

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Mika is desperate and has been plagued by dark thoughts for some time. She wants to die and attempts suicide. She is then admitted to a psychiatric ward. But even there, her negative thoughts and feelings are her constant companions. She takes numerous medications to numb herself, shuts herself off, and refuses help. After many weeks of despair, Mika slowly begins to open up, allowing contact with her roommates and caregivers and trying to find a way out of her mental crisis with their support. Will she succeed in overcoming her dark thoughts, leaving the psychiatric ward, and seeing life in a positive light again?

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

The end is just the beginning

THE END

IMPRINT

The end is just the beginning

Darkness.

Everything around me is dark, and I can feel it in my legs. I feel incredibly sick. I try to open my eyes. It takes a lot of effort, but after a while I manage it. Everything is spinning, and the nausea is getting worse.

I'm lying in my bed and carefully turn my head to the left. The bed sheet is bloody. A large pool has formed right next to my arm. I follow the bloody trail along the edge of the bed to my desk. I feel dizzy again and try to remember the last half hour. Everything is very blurry. I look at my left arm in horror. Deep, parallel cuts adorn the inside of my arm, and next to it lie two razor blades, a bowl, and three packs of paracetamol tablets. The sight of this mess brings back memories and panic rises.

I don't want to die. Not anymore. I don't want to live, but I don't want to die either. It takes a lot of effort to try to stand up. The dizziness gets worse and I'm in pain all over my body. A glance at the clock tells me that it's already been two hours since I decided to swallow the 53 tablets. I'm getting scared. Help. I need help.

With my last ounce of strength, I reach around until I remember that I must have left my cell phone in the bathroom. My only chance of surviving this night without permanent damage is to call 911. Slowly, I continue to sit up, but when I try to put weight on my legs, I collapse on the bedroom floor. I feel so sick and can't feel anything below my waist. Carefully, I try to drag myself across the parquet floor into the kitchen. I have to cross it to get to my bathroom. My cell phone is my last chance. With every second I wait, the likelihood increases that I won't make it, or worse... that I'll make it and ensure that nothing will ever be the same again. Nausea overwhelms me and I have to vomit. I try to get up again, but collapse after a few seconds. Maybe I should wait. Maybe it would be better to surrender to my fate. I chose this.

I must have passed out, because when I look at the clock again, it's already almost 1 a.m. Forget it, Mika. You'll make it. Everything will be fine.

Finally, I crawl to the bathroom. My cell phone is lying on the windowsill, as I vaguely remember. I grab it as quickly as I can and dial 911 with my last ounce of strength. The phone rings briefly.

"Good evening, you've called the emergency services. How can I help you?"

Oh God. What should I say? What have I done? There's no point in hiding it. It would only waste time that I don't have right now. After a short pause, I answer:

"I need help. I've taken an overdose of paracetamol. I live at 35b Hauptstraße in Heidelberg/Kirchheim."

"How many did you take?"

"53 tablets of 500 mg each."

"With suicidal intent?"

I hesitate briefly. I can't say it. It's the first time since I made my decision that I've actually had to say the words out loud. "Yes," I say meekly.

"All right. I'll send an ambulance right away. Please try to stay awake and don't fall asleep under any circumstances."

No questions. No comments. The call ends and I start to cry. If I survive this, I'll have to explain myself. The thought terrifies me. What am I doing? I don't want to survive this... Then everything goes black. A siren and a man at my balcony window wake me up and a small team breaks down my door.

"She's here! Bring the stretcher over!"

A woman comes over to me and shakes me gently. "Hello, can you hear me? We're the emergency services. You need to keep your eyes open. Can you tell me what happened?" She turns back to her colleagues and calls out, "Check the car to see if we still have the ACC."

Another voice makes a recording and describes what they find in my room. "We have a case of paracetamol poisoning with suicidal intent. There are several razor blades on the table. Can anyone find a suicide note?"

The woman who shook me turns back to me. Everyone around me looks just as panicked as I felt a moment ago, but now I feel only guilt and resignation. "We're going to put an IV in your left arm. Unfortunately, it's too late for the ACC. We're going to put you on a stretcher and take you to the university hospital in an ambulance. They'll take care of you there. Try not to close your eyes."

The man who was sent to look for the ACC comes rushing back into the room. "We don't have any more. I'm so sorry!"

"The stretcher is ready. Should I take anything else? I'll close the door so they don't get out." By "they," the man means my rabbits, who live with me in my apartment. Wuschel and Schneeball. The two have been keeping me company for many years. Snowball, as I always call her, has a knack for hopping over to me at just the right moment. So many times she has pushed her soft nose between my hand and a bloody knife to save me from the unspeakable. She has always been there for me, and I have let her down. I actually did it and didn't think for a single second about her future after my death. What kind of terrible and cruel person am I? If I hadn't called that night, she would probably have sat next to my decomposing corpse for days, unable to do anything. I imagine how cruel that fate would have been for her, and I feel even more ashamed.

"Yes, pack the key, the cell phone, and a charger. I saw a jacket around the corner."

"Can you stand up? We can't get the stretcher through the door." The woman holds out my Crocs and carefully helps me to my feet. Another man grabs my arm and we carefully walk through the door.

But what will happen to the two of them? I can hardly take them to the hospital with me.

Once outside, I am laid on a stretcher. I haven't spoken a single word yet. When the woman comes back to me, I look her straight in the eyes. "I'm sorry. I'M SO SORRY!" I can't hold her gaze any longer and turn away.

"It's not your fault. You don't need to apologize. I'm sorry that no one helped you and that you saw this as your only way out. You must have suffered greatly."

Her words hit me hard and I start crying again. Yes... I suffered. I wasn't starving, I didn't have cancer or a broken leg, but it was a pain that was just as bad. A pain invisible to others, which no one took seriously. If I'm being honest, not even myself. Strictly speaking, I had everything I could have wanted. I had an apartment, a place at university, enough money, and a car. I had more than most students, and I was only 18. Nevertheless, my life was marked by suffering.

Why am I suffering? I don't understand any of it. I don't want to suffer anymore. I want it to stop. I want it all to stop. Why did I call? It would have been certain death. It was my chance and I failed. I failed because I got scared. I don't want to be afraid anymore. No fear of people, no fear of existing, no fear of myself. I just want it all to stop.

The woman begins to push the stretcher toward the street. I feel the wheels shaking as they roll over the cobblestones. My gaze wanders to the building where I live. My landlords live above me, and I see the distraught look on the man's mother's face as she watches us through her kitchen window. No one says anything. No one speaks.

When we arrive at the ambulance, the stretcher is secured in the back and the woman from before sits down next to me on a chair. She takes my hand, squeezes it and looks at me briefly once more. Then she turns away and I start crying again. I notice her furtive glances at my left forearm, which is covered in deep wounds that I inflicted on myself. I pretend not to notice and look away.

When we arrive at the clinic, I am wheeled through several corridors into a room. It is a relatively large single room, and immediately about five doctors rush in. They are briefly informed of what happened by the woman, who then leaves the room with the other emergency personnel. She looks at me one last time and whispers "good luck." After that, I never see her again.

The doctors immediately familiarize themselves with my arm and the IV and connect a new tube. "You may feel a little sick. The ACC is the antidote to paracetamol and is designed to bind to the active ingredient before it reaches your liver, overloads it, and causes organ failure. We also have to overdose you, which unfortunately can have some unpleasant side effects. Let us know if it gets too bad. We'll see what we can do."

I feel the cold liquid running up my arm and say nothing. I can't even bring myself to look at the doctor. To my right is a window through which I can see a tree. It's very dark, but the sight of the gray leaves calms me. It's early fall and you can already see the slight discoloration.

I dare to glance again at the clock hanging above the wall opposite my bed. Half past two. Suddenly, I feel incredibly nauseous. The doctors have already left my room and I reach for a sick bag that they have kindly placed on a side table. I feel like I'm vomiting my soul, and even when I can't vomit anymore, the nausea doesn't go away.

"This must be what dying feels like," I whisper quietly to myself. I have a strong urge to scream, but I don't want to attract attention. I just have to fall asleep. Tomorrow will definitely be better. I turn on my side, but the flashing monitor next to me makes it impossible for me to rest.

The nausea gets worse and worse and I vomit every few seconds. Every now and then an elderly woman comes and changes the bag. I look at the clock again. It's almost 4 a.m. I have to sleep. Why can't I? I don't want to anymore. I feel so sick. When the woman enters the room again, I cautiously ask if there is anything for the nausea. I try to describe how bad it feels.

She just smiles, and I can literally hear her thoughts: It's your own fault. I don't even understand why we're treating you here. There are so many people who have had accidents, and we have to take care of someone who did this to themselves. Why are you even here? She says nothing and leaves.

I start crying again, but slowly the tears stop coming. She's right. I don't want to be here. Why did I call 911? Now everything will be the same as before, and I'm taking up a bed in intensive care that someone else could have needed much more. Maybe a father who had an accident. Someone with a family who wants to live. Maybe a child who was hit by a car. Maybe a woman with a serious illness. Instead, I'm lying here.

Me, who doesn't want to live anymore. A burden on those around me and a bad person who didn't give a thought to the consequences of her actions. I didn't want to cause suffering. I wanted to end mine. There's no help for me. I'm not worth saving because I'll do it again. This time with a sure method.

Maybe jump off the university building? Maybe an overdose? Maybe throw myself in front of a train? Maybe hang myself? There are so many safer methods. Why paracetamol? That was so stupid... And what was even more stupid was that phone call. I shouldn't have done that. Lost in thought, I stare at the tree through the hospital window. It's already 5 a.m. At some point, I drift into a kind of twilight state.

At seven, a man at my bedside wakes me up. "Good morning, Mika. I'm Dr. Müller, the psychologist on this ward. I'm here to talk to you about last night. You took an overdose of 26.5 g of paracetamol, which I understand was a suicide attempt." He pauses and an uncomfortable silence ensues as we stare at each other.

"What do you want? Do you want me to explain why I did it? You don't understand..." Resigned, I shift my gaze back to the tree and my thoughts to my pathetic attempts to find a therapist over the last few months. In the light, it has somehow lost its luster. The leaves look dead and the wood looks rotten.

"Are you depressed?" My breathing catches for a moment. So direct... Am I depressed? Yes, I haven't left my apartment in weeks except to go shopping and to university, but that was more because I couldn't see the point in anything anymore. I've also developed a panic fear of people, which is why I waited until late at night to do my chores so I wouldn't run into anyone. There were days when I couldn't even manage to do the most basic things. If my biggest challenge of the day is getting food and I can't even do that, what value does my life have? Can something like that even be an illness? So what exactly should I answer to this question? I clearly show the symptoms that are always mentioned in this context, and during my search for help, I was diagnosed with moderate depression by two psychologists. They must be right, right? Nevertheless, such an illness seems somehow unreal.

A certain anger at my inability to do simple things and the helplessness I have felt over the past few months is slowly setting in, and I notice how this is being projected onto the person sitting opposite me. This man is not to blame for the situation, but in my mind he symbolizes the rejection I have experienced time and time again from his colleagues. I am angry at the people who claimed that I was suffering from an illness but did not want to help me find a solution. I despise these people who are so quick to throw around diagnoses but send me home to die with nothing but information. When I saw the last psychologist, I even managed to tell him about my thoughts of dying soon, but he just replied that I should take back what I said. It took a lot of effort to talk about it, and now I was supposed to deny it? And why? Because otherwise he would have had problems with the health insurance company. That's what he said. I can hardly believe it myself. The words still echo in my head as if they were sharp blades digging deep into my soul and my faith in humanity. It was the last straw that broke the camel's back. So, without really wanting to be helpful, I decide to give him a short answer so as not to let him feel my anger too much. It's not his fault. He's not representative of his entire profession. I mustn't forget that, and maybe he means well.

"I think so, at least I have the diagnosis." He looks at me briefly and then writes something down in his notebook. "That on your arm. Did you do that to yourself?"

My ability to hold onto this thought is tested by the incomprehension that resonates in his words. It feels so insensitive to be asked about it so directly.

"Yes..."

"Why?"

I have to keep going. Maybe he can really help. So I decide to try to explain it as clearly as possible.

"I don't know. I think it turned the pain into something physical, something visible and understandable. When you see a bleeding arm, you know why it hurts. There's a trigger and a logical conclusion: a painful arm. With what I feel most of the time, that's not the case. It hurts, and I try desperately to find the cause, but there is nothing. When I do this to myself, it masks the other pain, and I have the opportunity to do something about it. Making the pain visible has helped me to see it for what it is, because it is much worse than any wound could ever be. I also wanted someone to notice. Someone should find the wounds and help me. I wanted that kind of help, and at the same time I tried to hide it and cover it up. So you see... I don't really know."

He looks at me briefly, nods, and starts writing again. "I think you're suffering from a severe depressive episode. The symptoms are no longer moderate. It's a miracle you were able to go to university. Can you tell me a little more about your sleep?"

I look at him a little blankly. Severe depressive episode... it's all somehow intangible to me and I'm just getting another diagnosis... Is he going to send me back like everyone else? Back to the fight against myself? The fight against the will to survive? Somehow, I still doubt the existence of such an illness. Why should something like this be real if there is no logical "cure" for me? How is just talking about it supposed to help? If I break my leg, I can't just talk it away, can I? I remember his question after staring at him for a few seconds.

"My sleep... I don't think I get much of it. I lie awake for hours before I can fall asleep, and I often wake up during the night. When I try to get up in the morning, I'm always completely exhausted, but not physically, which is why sleeping more is not an option. When I have time off, I stare at the ceiling for hours without being able to close my eyes. I don't have the energy to listen to music or watch anything on Netflix because, for some reason, it overwhelms me. I hate it. And so I lie there, thinking everything over a hundred times, and time just won't pass. Those are the moments when I ask myself what value such an existence has for me at all."

On the one hand, it feels good to finally be able to say all this, but at the same time, the questions make me extremely nervous and sad. To avoid his gaze, I turn away from him a little. A stabbing pain in my chest makes me pull my blanket up a little higher. "I'm sorry. I spoke to my colleagues earlier and we think it would be best to transfer you to the KBZ. It's a place where there are many people like you and where they will take care of you. Would you say that you might like that?" I find his choice of words very strange. Like? I just want it all to stop. Another place where they'll tell me I'm sick without doing anything about it? Maybe I should give it a try anyway. I mean, it can't get any worse than this...

"Yes, I think that would be good for me." Did I really just say that? I could kick myself. I don't have time for this. I have to get to university. What am I going to do with my rabbits? They've been home alone since yesterday evening. What if something happens? Who will take care of them? At least I mean something to them, but what good will that do them if I keep trying to kill myself at home? Isn't that even worse? Images of moments when Snowy sits in front of me with her white fur covered in blood, pressing her little nose against my trembling hand, flash through my mind . I have to try. I can't go on like this.

"Okay. I'll prepare for the transfer. But we'd like to keep you here for observation for a while. You've taken quite a lot of paracetamol. We need to make sure you're physically healthy again first." The word "paracetamol" makes me feel sick again. No matter what I was thinking, I really can't go on like this. It would be better for all of us if I ended my plan as soon as possible.

No. This can't be the end. Maybe this end is just the beginning. The beginning of a path to healing.

"I'll have breakfast and your medication brought to you in a moment. See you soon."

He gets up and leaves the room. I watch him go, unable to comprehend what just happened. Maybe this is the first step toward healing. Maybe now I won't be sent home again. A glimmer of hope begins to spread inside me. Maybe death isn't the only solution and I'll be able to live a normal life again. That would be really nice.

A few minutes later, a woman enters. Without a word, she places a small container with a tablet and a tray with a sparsely filled plate on the table. She doesn't look at me and leaves the room immediately without saying a word. As soon as she's gone, I pick up the container. I look at the contents from all sides. I immediately feel sick again. What have I done? How will I ever be able to take another pill without thinking about this night?

I take it out and put the small cup back next to the tray. Slowly, I turn it in my hand and carefully bring it to my mouth. The nausea gets worse. I just can't do it. So I put it back in the small cup and turn toward the window. There's a man under the tree. He's mowing the lawn. I watch him slowly pull the mower back and forth. I wonder how he is. Will he go home after work and hug his wife? Will he maybe grab a drink from the fridge after a long day and sit down on the couch with his family?

How does that feel? I mean, coming home and being happy. Thinking about your day and thinking: Everything is just the way I always wanted it to be. Tears run down my cheeks. What does it mean to be happy? I don't know. All my life I've moved from place to place without ever feeling at home. There were days when I went into the woods after school so I wouldn't have to go home. I feel so alone. My gaze falls back to the jar still standing on the table next to the tray. I push it aside and start spreading the bread. It tastes like cardboard.

After my first bite, I put it back on the plate and look at the tablet again. I just can't bring myself to put it in my mouth. Several hours pass, the tray is cleared away, but the container remains. I lie back on my back and stare at the ceiling, as I am used to doing.

It's a strange feeling not going to university. I wonder what my fellow students think, where I am? I don't dare look at my cell phone. What am I supposed to say? That I'm in the hospital? They'll ask why. I don't even know myself. Why, actually ...

Several hours pass before someone comes. "Would you like to use the restroom?" I look at the man at the entrance, puzzled. It's the first time the hospital staff has spoken to me. "Yes," I reply, still confused by this change in behavior.

"Unfortunately, for safety reasons, we can't let you go to the bathroom alone, but we have a chair with a bowl." I'm disturbed. Unimpressed by my uncertain look, he continues: "Since we can't leave you unattended, I'll have to stand at the door while you're in there. Can you get up on your own?"

I don't know how to respond. I nod mechanically and slowly pull myself away from the bedspread. I'm still wearing the blue pajamas from the night of my suicide attempt. They're like a little dress, and you can see my legs, which are also covered in scars and wounds. I try not to think about it and sit up. As I shift my weight onto my feet, I feel dizzy again. I feel as if I've been drinking and cling to the bed frame as I walk. The man pushes a chair toward me with a metal bowl attached to it. When I sit down, he turns his back to me and stands in the doorway.

This is by far the most uncomfortable situation I have ever been in, not counting the suicide attempt and the phone call afterwards. Somehow, I can't do it. After about five minutes, I give up and ask the man to leave. He just repeats what he said to and tells me that he will discuss it with his superiors again. Without a word, he leaves the room, leaving me standing there, ashamed and with an unpleasant feeling, leaning against my bed. Carefully, I climb back onto the mattress and lie there silently, as before.

A few minutes later, he returns. "I spoke to the doctors and they said you can take a quick shower. However, you must go to the toilet under our supervision, as we need to collect and analyze your urine. This means you cannot leave until you have used the toilet. If you would prefer, a female colleague will join us to supervise you."

I nod cautiously. The lady who comes in seems more friendly. At my request, she even leaves the room briefly. When the man returns, he seems slightly annoyed. "Right. You can take a shower now. I'll wait for you outside the bathroom door. Please hurry up and don't do anything stupid."

I wonder what he means by "nothing stupid"... I try to think of ways I could kill myself in the bathroom. Maybe I could hang myself with the shower hose. But when I enter the room and lock the door behind me, I immediately notice that the shower head is attached to the ceiling and there is no hose. Should I drown myself in the toilet?

Contrary to the clinic staff's request, the first thing I do here is use it. Finally, after almost twelve hours, I can use a proper toilet. I don't flush it so as not to draw attention to myself. After all, the nurse is standing right outside the door. When I step in front of the mirror, I jump back in surprise. I haven't seen myself in a very long time, as I've always avoided reflections and photos in everyday life. The face I see now doesn't look anything like the one I remember ( ). I feel like I'm looking at a stranger and need a moment to realize that this is really me. This isn't how I remembered myself. What has become of the happy girl I once was? Deep circles adorn the pale face I see in front of me, and a bruise on my left eye is the only splash of color. I try to force a smile, but it looks strained. I try to hold eye contact with my reflection for a moment, but after only a few seconds I have to look away. "We're both ashamed of the person on the other side," I say quietly to myself before turning back to my task in the bathroom.

"Is everything okay? Did you say something?" comes a quiet voice through the door. "No, no, everything's fine," I call back to the voice outside.

After approaching the shower, I scroll through my Spotify playlists to find a song that doesn't hint at suicidal intentions and find one in my girlfriend's playlist. Music has always helped me when I wanted to forget the outside world for a moment. It has become a means of communication for me, allowing me to express my feelings without having to talk about them. Reluctantly, I listen to a relatively cheerful song while turning on the water so as not to send the wrong message to the person behind the door. The cool water running over my body feels incredibly liberating. It's as if the water is washing away all the pain. I quickly get dressed and come back out.

When I open the door, the man hands me a toothbrush, a hair dryer, and a hospital gown. I take the items with thanks. "Please don't lock the door while you're using these."

Slightly annoyed, I give a quick "Okay." Without saying anything, I take the toothbrush out of the packaging and squeeze a little toothpaste onto it. "Do you do this often?" I'm a little surprised and, to be honest, wasn't expecting a conversation that would go beyond the formalities. What a strange question. I decide to respond with sarcasm.

"What do you mean? Brushing my teeth? I think so."

"I mean hurting yourself."

Ouch. So direct... I glance furtively at my left arm. "Yes, it helps..." I whisper.

"Does this happen often?"

I think briefly about how to respond to this slightly intrusive question. "Yes, always at midnight and only when Neptune is in front of the sun."

He looks at me, puzzled. "Are you okay?"

Another stupid question... "Yes, that's why I'm here, right?"

I have to suppress a smile. A stupid answer to a stupid question. He turns around without saying a word and leaves the room. I almost feel a little bad for reacting that way.

The woman returns. I put the toothbrush in my mouth and start brushing. While she was out, I quickly changed out of my pajamas and into the hospital gown so that no one could see me changing. The gown can only be tied at the back in one place, which means that my back and underwear are visible as soon as I turn around awkwardly. This is extremely uncomfortable for me, and I try to be careful the whole time. The nurse from earlier now steps up to the bathroom door. Visibly annoyed, she watches me as I swap my toothbrush for the hair dryer. When I'm done, I return to my bed without saying a word. "It felt really good to be able to take a shower."

"I'm glad you're feeling a little better. Tomorrow morning, a few people will come to transfer you to the KBZ."

Back in bed, I look at my phone for the first time. A quick message to my friend at university should suffice to apologize for my absence for now. So I make up a story that I recently had an accident and will be in the hospital for the next few days. It's not that far from the truth... Maybe he could send me the exercise sheets for the next few days so I can keep up appearances. I could also catch up on the lectures in this KBZ.

He replies immediately and wishes me a speedy recovery. No stupid questions... I thank him in my head.

Finally, I close WhatsApp and put my phone away. It's raining as I look back at the tree outside my window and watch its branches bend slightly in the wind. So, while I'm busy rethinking the point of my stay here, the woman from earlier comes in again. "Would you like to watch some TV? I can bring you headphones."

I don't respond and continue looking out the window. She comes closer and turns on a device by my bed. A picture appears and I hear a voice commenting on the behavior of a bird. She presses a button and the image changes to two people sitting at a table talking about politics. She hands me a pair of headphones in a small, transparent plastic bag and comments enthusiastically on what is happening in the program. "Here, you can watch in peace without anyone noticing."

I thank her briefly, but again keep my reactions to her behavior to a minimum. It's as if I have no energy for it and no interest in human contact. I feel a little sorry for her, as she has obviously taken sides against her colleague and is trying to get my attention, but I simply cannot respond to her attempts to get to know me or strike up a conversation. When she leaves the room, I turn off the device and plug the aux cable into my phone. The voice of Shawn Mendes sings softly about his suffering. I feel understood, as if someone else can relate to what I'm feeling. The woman enters the room again with a cup of fennel tea in her hand. I slowly start to feel a little watched, as she only leaves the room briefly. You can easily see her disappointment that I turned the device off again, and at the same moment, I regret treating her the way I did. Her previous attempts to cheer me up were so incredibly sweet, but at the moment I can't bring myself to do anything other than listen to music. It's the only form of entertainment left that doesn't make me feel sick and dizzy and immediately lose my ability to concentrate.

"I made you some tea. I hope you like fennel. Unfortunately, we don't have much choice here."

I nod and take the cup from her. "Thank you for caring about me. You're really very kind."

She smiles and goes to a monitor opposite my bed. "I just need to enter some information, then I'll leave you alone."

Alone... the word echoes in my head. Something inside me wants the woman to stay. "I hope I'm not causing you too much trouble."

She looks up briefly from her monitor and smiles. "It's no trouble at all. I'm happy to help." She looks back at her screen and types something. "There, I'm done now. If you need anything else, don't hesitate to ring the bell. I'll be happy to come back. You can also call me if you'd like another cup of tea. That's no problem. Have a good night.""

I think for a moment. "Thank you, you too."

She leaves the room. I spend the rest of the evening listening to music and looking at the tree outside my window. It reminds me of myself somehow, standing there so bare and lifeless. Eventually, I manage to get some sleep.

The next morning, a new nurse comes into my room and places my breakfast tray and medication on the table. I didn't take yesterday's medication and disposed of it in the bathroom without anyone noticing. Now I pick it up again and turn it around like I did the day before. It doesn't even look like paracetamol, so why can't I swallow it? I put it in my mouth today and immediately feel the urge to gag. I quickly drink some water and try not to think about it. The nausea lasts for several hours. I leave my breakfast untouched today. I lie down again and continue listening to music.

It's not until evening that the nice nurse and two younger people come into my room. They push a stretcher in front of them and press a white bag into my hand with "Patient Property" written on it.

"Hello Mika, we've come to take you to the KBZ ward today. Do you need a moment to pack your things?"

I nod and start stuffing my cell phone, charger, and pajamas into the bag. Meanwhile, they position the stretcher next to my bed.

"Can you walk or shall we carry you over?"

"I can walk."

"Okay. Then please lie down here and put the bag on your lap."

I do as I am asked and look one last time at the nurse standing next to us, observing the situation.

"Thanks for everything."

She nods at me kindly and I am wheeled out of the room. We go through several corridors before arriving at an underground car park, where the stretcher is loaded back into an ambulance. An older man sits down next to my stretcher and looks me over while talking to the two younger people who are sitting in the front of the car. His gaze slowly wanders over my arm, which I unfortunately can't hide with the hospital gown. He tries not to let on when I flinch nervously, and doesn't mention it during the ride.

"I used to study here. Are you a student too?"

"Yes, at Mathematikon. I'm studying computer science."

It feels like a lie to say that. I could count on one hand how many times I've been in that building, and what I did there can't really be called studying. Another pretty facade to distract from my ugly inner life, which I try so hard to hide.

"Really? I heard it's really difficult. I spent a lot of time with electronic devices when I was your age. Do you enjoy your studies?"

How would I know if it's difficult? Well... at least I can answer the question about whether it's fun.

"Not really."

He falls silent. Apparently, he's trying to find a topic of conversation that has nothing to do with the current situation. It doesn't seem to be an easy task for him, as we both know that he's supposed to be accompanying me to a psychiatric ward. After about five minutes, he tells me something about the traffic, but I'm not paying attention anymore. My thoughts are already where I'm being taken. I try to figure out where we are from the side window, but I don't know Heidelberg well enough to tell. We're probably somewhere in Neuenheimer Feld, as I can see part of my university through the small window.

I remember a preliminary course I secretly attended. It was about depression, and at the time I hoped it would help me somehow, as I had already decided I wanted to die. To my disappointment, however, I only received basic information. At the very end of the lecture, we were told that we were welcome to talk to the tutor privately if we were feeling unwell. I didn't dare to do so at the time, and now I can't hide it any ... I'm being taken somewhere where people want to help me, and everyone will know why I'm there. The thought sends a cold shiver down my spine.

After a few minutes, the car comes to a stop. The door opens and we are standing in front of a relatively large, intimidating building.

"We're here. This is the psychiatric ward."

I'm briefly shocked by the word. Psychiatric ward... He's the first person to say it out loud. No one told me I was being taken to a psychiatric ward. I just assumed. It makes sense, but it still feels wrong. I'm not crazy. I'm just tired—tired of life. I fail miserably at hiding my shock, but luckily the man doesn't notice. At least, that's what I try to tell myself...

They push me through the entrance area, past a counter and then around many corners. I try to remember how to get out, but fail after the fifth turn. We come to a hallway with many large brown doors. A scream echoes through the hallway and I flinch again. Everyone around me is unimpressed and just carries on with what they're doing. The man opens one of the doors and is replaced by a young woman.

"We've already made up her bed. The one on the right by the door is hers."

They place the stretcher next to the bed and ask me to sit down. I put the bag down next to me and look past the woman into the room. Everything about this situation feels so wrong. What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong in a psychiatric ward. I'm not crazy like " ." How am I going to get out of this mess... I try to get an overview of the room and my new (I don't dare call it that) home.

On the right-hand side of the wall is a bed with a blonde girl of about 15 sitting on it, looking at me with interest. At the back of the room is another bed with a wooden partition in front of it. Apparently, this is a triple room. I wonder if all the rooms look like this? Someone is moving behind the wall. To the left of the door is another door that is open. I can see a sink and tiles, so I assume it's the bathroom. At least I have a door I can lock behind me in an emergency. The thought makes my situation a little more bearable. The rest of the room is relatively spacious and has two large windows looking out onto a courtyard. What immediately strikes me are the locks on the window handles. Kind of creepy...

The woman looks at me and begins to speak.