Going Home

After we departed for home, I couldn't help but feel as if I were abandoning the other patient or shall I say "resident"whom I had shared six long months of pure agony and misery with, knowing what we had tried to do to ourselves. As I sank into the back seat of the car among bags of all my favorite foods, a honey dew included, that Mom purchased to ease me back into the familiarity of home, I thought about the doctor saying that one reconstructive surgery would repair the nerve damage and shallow hole in my face, but I felt no operation could repair the unforgivable act of a self-inflicted gunshot to your own head.

"A deep sadness had over taken me"; that's what I told the psychiatrist. The sadness had been roaring in my mind like a lion so much so that I took my uncle's antiquated Smith and Wesson with a tinge of rust on the front sight and held it unsteadily to my head. I really didn't want to kill myself; I just wanted the sadness to end.

We finally arrived home, and my Mom closed the garage as she parked the car. I opened the rear car door and grabbed my bags to enter the house. As I entered the kitchen, a familiar sadness flooded my mind, and I had a deja vu moment that suggested, home is not a place to which you can alway return.