College

College, the best years of your life, or so I have been told.

Going off to college I hoped that things would be different, that I could get past the depression and everything all on my own, however, it obviously didnt work out that way. First semester of school I was doing well, I wasnt happy, but I wasnt harming myself so things were fine for the time being. I was going through the motions, hanging out with the friends I had made, making sure to not let the fake smile slip, crying myself to sleep most nights, I wished I were dead, but I kept going anyways.

I waited till after Christmas break to tell my parents about everything that was going on, in an email, as far away as possible. I was so ashamed, so upset. Our floor had a spare room and I locked myself in it that night and sobbed like I had never sobbed before, I was a failure, I ruin peoples lives. My parents wanted to come get me that night, but I knew that wasnt what I wanted, I didnt want to let myself give up on school, I had to prove to myself that I could do it, even through the inner battles I was struggling with. My parents let me stay in school when I promised to see the campus counselor. I saw her every week for the rest of the year.

After I came home for spring break and they started me on my first anti depressant, it had been nine straight months without self harming. It took one week on those meds to start cutting again. I remember standing in the hallway after I had cut myself again for the first time and just feeling pure relief. I looked at my friend who was going through the same battle and just smiled. Needless to say, she knew what I had done.

While everyone was going out to party and having the time of their lives, I was spending most my time doing homework and spending time in the bathroom, the only privacy I had to hurt myself. I would sit and break apart razors. It was a complete need, I started building up the amount of razors I had, x-acto knives from my art class, scalpels from biology, scissors, anything. I had to make sure I had something at all times, cutting every chance I had.

I started to give my roomate my blades, I knew I wasnt able to get rid of them myself. I even had to "check out" my scissors and x-acto blades from her when I needed them for school work. That probably should have made me feel worse, more pathetic, but really it helped. It was nice to have someone to hold me accountable, someone who I could talk to about it when I wanted to do it.

I know it is stupid, but if you are going through this type of thing you really arent alone. But at the same time, you cant get through it alone either. Dont allow it to take over your life, talk to someone, its so hard, beyond hard, but after you do you will feel better about it.

None of you are alone, if you have no one, you have me. Dont let your college years be the worst years, make them the best they can be.

Fear.

There arent many people who have been through all of this with me, from the very beginning, but one person that has is my best friend Angeleah Tena. When I decided to do this blog I knew I wanted to tell my story, but I also knew I wanted to get the perspective of people on the outside looking in, people who know me, who have seen all of the stuff I write about first hand. So I asked some people if theyd write an entry for me, on anything they wanted really, and Angeleah agreed.

July 17, 2011.

July 17.
Really, it began the day before.
My best friend and I decided to go to Seattle that day, just to bum around, visit Pike Place, eat some cheese curds... I had almost forgotten that I had plans that night to meet my mom for a show... Long story short, my mom was upset with me that night, and Sara felt like it was her fault. She was rather upset, but seemed fine when we said goodnight.

July 17.
Seemingly normal day. I get up, get dressed, not much going on. I have work at three. I'm texting Sara back and forth, nothing too serious. ...And yet, she still seems upset about the night before. I tell her it's really not a big deal, but it's her next response that changes my life.

She tells me it doesn't matter either way. "I'm done. I will always love you, but I can't do this anymore. I'm going to kill myself. Goodbye."

My heart drops, my mind races, I can't breathe. I have to stop her, I can't let this happen. But she's at work. Only a few miles away, but she might as well be across the country for all I can do. I have to be at work in an hour, she doesn't get off for another three hours. But I HAVE to do something. I try to just keep her talking. I know this isn't really something I'm equipped to handle alone. I call our youth pastor's wife, Megan. She counsels me that I have to realize that I ultimately don't have control over Sara's actions. ...It was an impossible idea to grasp.

July 17.
No words will EVER be adequate to describe what I was feeling. It was, without a doubt, the scariest day of my entire life. I've never quite been able to articulate those feelings, not even to Sara.

July 17.
I finally convince her to come meet me at work after she gets off. Megan plans to meet us there shortly afterward. I am so scared. Terrified actually. No matter what she agrees to, I have no guarantee that Sara will do what I ask. No matter how much I beg her not to leave me, plead, threaten, she could change her mind and I'd never see her again. It would be over.

I'm not sure I fully appreciated her before that day. She'd been with me through so much. Had stayed by my side through all the shit I had gone through in the last few years, been strong for me despite how much she was struggling. She was my confidante, my partner in crime, my best friend. I could not lose her.
...Well, you know the next part if you've read Sara's story of that day. That first night was the hardest for me. She had assured me she was not mad, but I couldn't help but question if I could've done something differently, something better...

Fast forward three weeks.
After Sara left Fairfax hospital, she gave me a letter she had written me during that time. The progress she felt she had made, her thoughts, the friends she had made. Those were a rough three weeks for me, only getting to visit her once, so I was glad to have a look into her experiences. There were two things that really stood out to me.
1. She assured me once and for all that she was not angry with me, never had been. She was just angry with the situation. It was a relief.
2. At the beginning, she said that one of her goals by the time she was released was to be able to thank me. . And in the end she did.

Sara thanked me. For not giving up on her, for standing by her when things got tough, for doing what I had to do even if it meant she never spoke to me again...

But most of all...even though I've never felt like I deserved it, Sara thanked me for saving her life.

In the Beginning

Some wonder how it all starts, how you turn to cutting as an out. Well I am not not going to pretend I know, because honestly I dont, I dont know how it started, I just know that it happened, no thought just an action. I wouldnt say there was a specific cause either, but I can tell you what i was dealing with when it all started.
I had been depressed for a long while before that first cut and I hadnt been hanging out with the best of friends and the use of drugs and alcohol by others made me extremly anxious. I felt a responsibility to keep them safe and I would not let myself walk away because if I did something could happen and it would be my fault. We had a lot of fun together, but at the same time I knew that that was not the life I wanted to be living, it wasnt healthy for them or I. Nonetheless, I stuck around for years, I felt like they were really my only friends. So every weekend we would be out causing trouble and all I could think was that I had to keep them safe, alive, out of trouble.

Self harm never even occured to me. There was one night that was kind of a limit for me, I could take no more. I recall that I had left them so upset that night and they had no clue anything was even wrong with me. It was late when I got home that night, my whole family asleep, and I went to the kitchen and grabbed scissors from the drawer. I have no idea why I did because I truly never thought of self harm as an option and never desired to do so, however, I spent that night cutting myself over and over until it stung too much to keep going.

I was so confused after that, why I had done it, why did it feel right, why was I so broken. It took a couple weeks before I did it again, but after that I didnt seem to care, I just needed more.

Your Thought

So here we are, we have pretty much gotten down to the nitty gritty. Since I am not only writing this blog for myself, but for you readers out there, however many of you there actually are, I'd love to hear from you. As a whole I try to get all the information to you as best I can in words, but Im sure some things are unclear or hard to understand. Your thoughts are important to me, any questions you want answered are important to me, you the reader are important to me. So let me hear from you, send a comment, send an email, say whatever you would like, this post is dedicate you, even if youre reading "just a thought" for the first time.

A sudden bold and unexpected question doth many times surprise a man and lay him open. -Francis Bacon


Great things are only possible with outrageous requests. -Thea Alexander

Psych!

Walk in, large metal doors close behind you, there is no getting out now. You walk down a overly bright hallway, open doorways along the way, and are seated in a lone chair right in front of this window that held the nurses. You sit there about fifteen minutes as a bunch of patience walk past you and stare as though youre new meat, then youre taken to this dark, stuffy room to sign and fill out a bunch papers, like what kind of things do they need to do if you have a meltdown. You then go meet the patients in the common room right before they all have to head to bed. You sit there, alone, exhausted, overwhelmed, unsure, until they finally let you sleep. I guess thats what you get for wanting to kill yourself.

Well, that was my first night. I was put into the south unit the first  night, which is for people who battle drug and alcohol addictions as well as mental health. Its an odd thing actually being in a room with a bunch of people that understand what youre going through. Being the new kid, though, all the patients were wondering how the smiling young girl that sat in the corner, knees to her chest, got drop in the crazy house. Several of them explained why they were there, "suicidal and heroin addict", "suicidal and meth addict", "suicidal and alcholic", you get the point. Anyways I said "I cut and and suicidal", that seemed to be a suffcient response to their questions.

The next day they moved me to the central unit, I can only describe the central unit as the crazies who arent the craziest, thats the north unit. Ill say most people in central are bipolar and depressed like me while the northies were more the schizo and violent. They walk me in through another set of large metal doors, you hear that click and you know that youre stuck there, locked in. I had nothing but the clothes on my back (I wasnt expecting to end up in the psychward when I got up or I would have prepared) no laces, belts, or drawstrings, but they give you zipties for your shoes, how sweet of them huh.

I was in the first room in the new overly bright hallway. I had two roommates, Rosemarie and Emma, Emma was the only person who was actually my age so we got along quite well, she was an odd one. Once you walk into the community room (they had all the cartons of chocolate milk you could think of, we drank alot of it) everyone is nice, once again wanting to know my story. Its weird how people can become family in only ten days, but those people in the central unit became family, we all looked out for each other, we also had a lot of real good laughs. No, they werent "crazy" they were normal people, just like me, well most of them. Even the regualr nurses were considered part of the family, even the ones we really didnt like, Adrian.

I spent ten days with the central unit. I had a few visitors, ate some pretty good caf food, played some basketball, went to every group session, went to all the personal sessions with my psyciatrist, took my meds out of my little white cup every day, I did everything I had to do to get out of there. Im gonna be honest, it gets real lonely after about five days, you just want familiarity, but people have lives and cant go at the weird hours to visit you.

After the ten days, and a few tearful goodbyes, I was on my way...to out patient. Out patient was way more laid back, group of about five of us, Emma being one of them, groups all day, but I had to drive out to Kirkland everyday which was a pain in the butt.

When I was completely done with the program, I felt good, not like I wasnt depressed anymore, but I guess I had a minute of hope, hope that maybe I could stop self harming and get better. Obviously that didnt last, but a month, but Im on my way again. I did learn alot from my experience in the psych ward, many coping skills that worked for me, I even learnd about being bipolar and how our mood swings go and such. I really enjoyed being there, I wouldnt recommend it to anyone, but it was a good place that put me on the right track to recovery.