A chaotic evening. Hours filled with fear. In the waiting room of a psychiatric clinic, two sisters wait. One is a future patient, battling demons that push her towards ending her life soon. The other is her frightened, confused younger sister, feeling helpless and unsure of how to help in this battle against the demons.
First Clinic:
-We understand your distress, but we can’t admit you; we have no available space…
Second Clinic:
-We understand your distress, but we can’t admit you; we have no available space…
Third Clinic:
-We understand your distress, but we can’t admit you; we have no available space…
Are there really so many “crazy” people in this country that one cannot find a place in a clinic to save their life? However, she has found her own way to survive. Death! The end of suffering! Escaping this body, which has become so alien and unbearable in everyday life. But who allows it? Those around her are in a panic, some judging, some angry, some nervously caring. They have only now come alive when the choice of death appeared. Where were they until now? Do people really need extreme experiences to wake up? Is it only when they see a fellow human deciding to die that they can wake up? And is it their decision and responsibility to prevent someone from leaving the earth?
Why? Because they would be hurt, they would suffer from guilt, thinking “If only I had checked on her more often, seen her more often, talked to her.” Their conscience would torment them for only a few weeks… Then they would find their justification to soothe their selfish conscience and continue their carefree life even with a traumatized psyche. Is this truly an altruistic desire to keep someone on earth suffering?
Finally, a place became available in one of the clinics. The man working at the reception directed the girls to the place where patients in a crisis state were living. The elevator opened. The girls came out on the second floor and rang the bell on the locked door to the right. A buzz sounded and the door opened. Yes, this was a locked ward where every step of the patients was controlled. They even had to take their medications under the nurses’ supervision.
The girls entered and requested admission. The future patient had to go through formal procedures, including a conversation with the chief doctor. Here, probably for the twentieth time, she recounted how thoughts of suicide, images, and torturous feelings kept coming. She recounted it as if it were nothing significant, simply informing the doctor of her story. The new patient was given a room, and it was time to say goodbye to her caring sister. The patient looked frightened at the new environment and struggled to express trust.
– Go on, leave quickly, you know, I don’t like goodbyes! – the patient told her sister, then closed the door to her room behind her.
The pages of the diary were filled every day.
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