Youth Opinion : The Light Switch : Careers: In a flash, a college freshman decides her life’s work.
The air was as cold as a corpse and just as still. My pink nose stung with each breath of bitter morning air. I reluctantly pulled my tender right hand from its warm, cozy home in my jacket pocket. Along with my hand came a key, which I frantically used to unlock the frosty glass door. Ahh, heat! A gush of warm air welcomed me as I opened the door. I looked down at my watch as the door closed behind me: 6:48 a.m. I had 12 minutes to open the bookstore; no problem.
As I made my way down the store’s main aisle toward the light switch, I felt my left shoe sticking to the carpet. “Oh, great!” I mumbled to myself. “I’ve got gum on my brand new loafers.” But when I looked down, chills ran down my spine. I caught a glimpse of a limp, bluish finger sticking out from behind the Poetry section. The bony appendage lay fully extended, as if it were pointing at the sanguine trail I had made through the puddles of curdling blood.
The warmth that had bathed my pale skin seconds earlier was instantly drained.I just stood there. My heart plummeted, but I never felt it land. Tears welled up in my eyes but drops never fell. I just stood there. The finger had a ring on it, a silver frog with sapphire eyes on a tiny band. I knew that ring. I knew the bitten-to-the-skin nail. I knew those calloused knuckles. I knew that finger. Still, I just stood there.
Extending the bloody tracks, I was able to make my way to the back of the store. My hands trembled as I stumbled over to the light switch. Flipping the lights on gave me a sudden burst of courage. I was steady, yet still reluctant as I walked back toward the finger. As I reached the Horror section, the finger and the body to which it was attached came into full view. It was Jeff, another store employee. I couldn’t believe he’d really done it.
As a 27-year-old manic depressive, Jeff had been suicidal for the better part of his life. He’d been through drug and alcohol addictions, daily beatings by his father until he was placed in foster care and three divorces from the same woman (a result of the pain he continuously put her through). I’d gotten to know Jeff pretty well; stick two people together for hours on end and they find out a lot about each other.
I’d heard about his horrid ventures to mental institutions after drug overdoses, carbon monoxide poisoning or setting himself on fire. All I could do was listen. Every time I was tidying up behind the front counter and found one of his lists ranking the different methods to kill oneself, all I could do was listen. Every time he’d come in with three-inch cuts up and down his arms after a night with a bottle of whiskey and a razor blade, all I could do was listen. Now, I couldn’t even listen.
“It’s not fair,” I thought as I stared at him, half-pretending that he was just asleep. It upset me to think that in 27 years, no one had ever reached him. Unhindered, his suffering had continued. It was at that moment that I decided I was not going to let people who could live long and happy lives end it all in a red gush on the cold floor of a retail establishment. I decided to become a psychiatrist to help people to see that what they do does matter, that they are special, that they can deal with and get through whatever is thrown at them, that life can be fulfilling.
Doctors had been experimenting for years with different combinations of drugs to regulate the chemical imbalances in Jeff’s brain. I’m going to address the emotional aspects of a patient’s problems to accomplish what no mind-altering substance ever could. I’m going to make the difference between life and death.