My birthday was quickly approaching and with it came much depression. My mind was healthy, but I was celebrating my 23rd year on earth in a mental hospital. Birthdays are supposed to get better as you get older but since the age of nineteen each year gradually went downhill. I made up my mind not to celebrate or even see my birthday. The hospital made it very hard to kill ones self but I was determined to be dearly departed for my happy birthday. I calmly walked over to the night nurse and asked her for a razor to “shave my legs with.” She didn't think twice about giving me, the “happy, smiling,” patient a razor. I took it to the bathroom and started cutting my wrist. I was in the room for over fifteen minutes when the nurse decided to check on me. She came too soon; my wrists had bled a great deal but not nearly enough. My psychologist called my mom and dad and told them of my weak suicide attempt. My parents greeted me on June 6th with disgusted looks on their faces. I felt badly enough but this caused me to hate myself even more. This load of hatred was getting awfully heavy because of the fact that I lived and was able to blow out 23 birthday candles. The psychiatrist told me to get used to living in a hospital because I should plan on setting up residency there.
Shortly after that Joe was readmitted to the hospital because he had stopped taking his medication. I was awfully glad to see a familiar face. Joes’ stay at the hospital was much shorter this time. We spent many hours talking but he did most of the listening. I hated to see Joe go when he was discharged, but at the same time I was glad to see him begin to live again.