Chocolate Frostys.

I always had a sweet tooth,
even at 19 years old,
when I was taken to Parkview
after mom and dad
followed me into a grassy field
behind the elementary school.
I kept repeating
"I want to die, just let me die"
while I tried to dodge the
firm arms of my parents;
it was my mom that finally caught
me in her arms,
stronger than I ever remembered,
strong for her short frame.

How strange that after
we had checked into the main hospital,
after my vitals had been taken,
my parents offered to take me to Wendy's
before we drove over to behavioral health.
How bizarre that I ordered a chocolate frosty,
for how could I enjoy simple things when
I wanted to end my life?

I had such an opportunity to escape,
maybe at the drive-thru window,
maybe in the middle of the transaction.

But I didn't, I was too defeated.

And I remember nothing of how
chocolate frostys taste now,
only the five days that followed
that day in August,
how they made me feel like a
prisoner,
how I tasted the uncertainty
of a future I was forced to lead...

-

(this hurts to talk about,
it's been three years already.
I don't think of it too often.
I actually wouldn't have remembered
about going to Wendy's if I hadn't written
journal entries following my stay at PBH.)