• Mentions of self harm and suicide.

    I AM...

    The fresh wounds are like a mosaic artwork that dances across my arms, blood pooling and slipping away from me, ruining the beautiful art. Why did you do that? Why did you have to ruin it? It was so pretty...

    I shake briefly and laugh – it isn’t cold, why am I shaking? I turn the heat up anyway before I retrieve fresh bandages from the medicine cupboard and wrap myself up, laughing my way through the pain. I then go and lie down on the couch, watching re-runs of “The Simpsons” and continuing to shake but I manage to ignore it.

    I soon realize that the blood is soaking straight through the bandages but all I can do is smile at my misfortune. I find some towels and mop up the blood but before I get the chance to replace the dirtied bandages, I begin shaking again but this time it doesn’t stop. Suddenly, nothing feels funny or worth laughing at.

    I look out the kitchen window to see Drake walking towards the house and I panic, running for my bedroom to find a jumper as a last ditch effort to hide the blood but once I pull the jumper over my head, I grow dizzy and fall, just as Drake walks inside and calls out to me in greeting.

    As unconsciousness tugs at my eyelids, forcing them closed, I hear Drake’s horrified yell and the rapid footsteps as he rushes to my aid but it is too late...



    I wake in a white room, Drake calling to me but y eyes cannot find him and I cannot find my voice. I manage a groan before I smell the distinct odour of anti-septic and I cry out in pain as it is applied to my wounds. Tears stream down my cheeks as liquid agony taints my beautiful art. I was happy, why did they have to ruin it?

    Drake tries to calm me but I pay him no heed and soon I feel a soft tugging in my arm as they stitch me back together. I’m in pain, can’t they see that? Can’t they see they’re hurting me? Why don’t they stop? Why don’t they help me instead?

    An all too familiar mental pain seeps into my mind and I allow it to encapsulate me, to take me away from the pain.



    When I wake once more, I hear a dull beeping and the sound of whispers that I’m not supposed to hear but I listen anyway in case the voices tell me where I am or what happened to me but they speak only of psychological assessments, stronger medications and psychiatric units.

    I drift in and out of sleep and unconsciousness, still unaware of my whereabouts and situation though I eventually decipher that I have been admitted to the hospital as a case of attempted suicide. Nothing unusual.

    The next day I am made to talk to some mean old man who asks a lot of questions before he coughs and sends me back to bed. One of the nurses goes with me, explaining that I am being diagnosed with bipolar disorder and that I will have to stay in hospital.

    That simply won’t do, though. How can I continue my art if I’m stuck in here? No, that simply won’t do.

    I ask the nurse if I can call home. She agrees but explains that she has to stay with me in case anything happens to me. What does she think is going to happen to me? That an elephant is going to go on a rampage and squash me? These people are rather absurd.

    I call Drake and tell him that they won’t let me come home because they think I have bipolar. He merely says that he is really late for work and hangs up.

    I return to my bed where I go back to sleep and dream of rooftops, mountains, cliffs and bridges – and me jumping off every single one.

    I am Bree Rusakov and I am suicidal.