I Can't Write About It

I can't write about it.    
   
I can't write about the nightmares that came to life.    
How I walked through my life like a zombie.    
   
I can't write about the pills that I hid in drawers    
because I was too proudly self-conscious to take them.    
How I set aside money so I could finally make a run for it;    
to some life that was supposed to be better.    
   
I can't write about how I believed someone else should take    
my place in the world, because I felt I was wasting it.    
How someone else should use my opportunities.    
I did not want them; didn't deserve.    
   
I can't write about the first day, second semester.    
Not about how I left in the the middle of the philosophy professor's  
lecture because I couldn't keep my heart rate    
quieter than a jack hammer; my breathing like a locomotive.    
   
I can't write about how I sat catatonic in my dad's arms    
while he sat and cried with me. When he finally asked me,    
"Do you want to live?!" I can't write the response I gave,    
unless I can speak in code. Like the NATO phonetic alphabet, November Oscar.    
   
I can't write about the drive to the emergency room.    
Hearing my dad say over and over that I was going to get    
the help needed. How I had to tell the doctor that I .... I ....    
I …
wanted  
to  
kill myself.    
   
I thought about all the funeral arrangements I'd made.  
Debating whether planning would make it easier for everyone,    
or whether I was even remotely    
worth the price of that casket with free shipping.    
   
I can't write about the ride to the ward.    
A shuttle across town to that place where    
only the crazies are suppose to go.    
How when I was finally given a room for the night,    
it was a dimly lit, beige room with a barred window and thick, metal door.  
The "bed" was a cold, plaster growth from the floor    
and written on the wall was the name of a previous tenant,    
in his own crimson code.    
   
I can't write about how I was monitored all night but    
still scared as sleepless schizophrenics wandered the halls.  
I can't write words to describe the horror of uncertainty;  
not knowing how long I would have to stay, or how serious my condition.    
   
For all I knew, I was beyond repair and should be treated like the dog I was. Just put me to sleep and bury me in the back yard.  
Better yet, just dump me in the ocean so no one will have to remember how I wasted space. money. time.    
   
I can't write about it unless its through broken metaphors.    
It is too hard to even think, much less write or talk about it.    
But I suppose being around to write about it is the most important thing.