A Dream of Desperation

I had a dream that I was going to kill myself. I borrowed someone’s revolver, loaded it, and tried to find somewhere alone to end it all. Someone must have called emergency services.

I was by a dumpster when someone came by and started talking to me. I was sad, scared, and hurt throughout the whole ordeal. I didn’t want to die—not really. But I was in pain, overwhelmed, and broken. I don’t quite know why this was my solution; it just was. I remember being torn up in the dream, the whole time thinking about ending it. There was regret, but also desperation.

As we spoke, I put the gun away—I didn’t want to die anymore.

Somehow, I made it home, but emergency services showed up and insisted on taking me in. I told them I was fine and didn’t want to go. Then the cops got involved. They demanded I come out and let them take me, but I refused. I knew they’d drug me, break my mind even more, and leave me even more likely to hurt myself once they let me go—on top of whatever torture they’d put me through in the meantime.

I kept trying to explain that I was fine now and just wanted to be left alone, but the cops were armed. I realized they were more likely to shoot me dead than I was to shoot myself. Once again, desperation set in—fear, despair, anger. I was furious that they wouldn’t leave me alone.

For a moment, I thought about firing on them before they could kill me because I knew, deep down, they didn’t know how to handle this kind of situation. I’ve seen it before—time and time again, they fail when it comes to mental health crises. I told them to leave, insisted that I was fine, but they kept coming closer.

Just as they were trying to get to me, I woke up.