One Year Ago

Wow. A year ago today I was in the psychiatric ward.

This is how I felt a year ago today. This is what I wrote to give to my psychiatrist, finally telling her the truth after months of hiding how bad I really was. What made her put me in the hospital.


• I’ve been in bed for the last three weeks. Numb or crying. My energy and motivation are nonexistent. No showering or brushing my teeth. Some days I don’t eat because I can’t get myself up in order to get food.

• Started scratching and biting myself. I don’t use a knife or razor though. Mostly because I’m afraid I couldn’t stop myself from going for a vein.

• I think about killing myself constantly. Every time I walk down the stairs, I consider throwing myself down them. If I drive somewhere, I contemplate crashing into a wall at full speed.

• I can’t stop imagining empty rooms filling with blood.

• I’m so horny (after two years with no sex drive) that I look online for strangers to fuck. But I feel too ugly to contact anyone. So I just masturbate. And it’s great. But when I’m done I start crying and feel like I’m going to throw up.

• I have these flashes of inspiration and motivation where I feel sane and clear and like I can do anything in the entire world. But that doesn’t last. And it slams down like a big steel door and I’m back in darkness the again.

• I feel too ugly to leave the house. Sometimes. Other times I feel sexy and hot. It’s weird and confusing.

• I’ve felt depressed since childhood and I’m so worried that this is just who I am and I’m destined to feel like this forever. That there’s no cure and no medicine will ever help. It’s all just so incredibly pointless.

• If I just tried harder I could fix it. If I just tried harder I could stop crying and get out of bed. I could clean the house. I could get a job. I could go out and have a life. Instead I rip myself apart for being lazy and worthless. Because I can’t fix it, no matter how hard I try.

• I feel like I’m having a complete mental breakdown. Worse than anything I’ve ever felt before. Like my brain is melting and I’m trying to hold it in but nothing works. I feel psychotic. And I’m scared. I'm so fucking scared of what's happening.

• I looked up which psychiatric hospital is used by my insurance. Then I looked up the hospital. In case. Just in case. I tried to call but couldn’t bring myself to finish dialing. Because I didn’t know what to say. “Help me. Stop me from killing myself. I think I’m insane.”? I just couldn’t. It was too embarrassing. But I wanted to so badly. To get just five minutes of freedom from having to control my urges to kill myself. To get just five minutes of calm. To get just five minutes of safety. Maybe it’d have been worth it. But I didn’t because I can’t afford it and I’m embarrassed to need it.

• In the course of a day I can go from sobbing and suicidal to happy and excited and back to sobbing and suicidal. It’s so fucking exhausting. And I’m so sick of how hopeful the happy seconds make me feel because as happy as I get...that’s how miserable I am after. It’s like a trade off. And it’s not even worth it because even at my happiest I can’t accomplish anything. I’m so frozen and feel paralyzed and trapped. Though I’m the only thing holding me prisoner.

• I used to be kind and considerate and I don’t know where that went. Now I’m filled with so much anger and hate. I frequently fantasize about murdering and hurting people. Sick thoughts that I hate myself even more for having.

• I’m isolating more and more. Maybe more internally than anything else. I still occasionally talk to and even see my friends but I don’t even consider them anymore when I think about killing myself. I’ve become a shit friend anyway...it won’t be much of a loss to them anyway. Probably for the best before I get any crazier.

• Some nights I feel as if my skin is crawling. I get into this crazed agitated, uncomfortable state. Like there are ants running along my muscles beneath my skin. And I have to keep turning over and over and over, rubbing my arms and legs as hard as I can, to try to make it go away. Whatever “it” is. I end up clawing and biting my arms, trying to get the feeling centralized somewhere instead of this twitchy miserable chaos.

• I can’t concentrate or focus. I forget words and names and stories people have told me. My brain just feels so...scattered. I don’t like talking to people anymore because I’m suddenly incapable of it; the words don’t come easily anymore...if at all.

• Sometimes I can’t stand the noise for one more second. So I drink and/or take pain killers to make my brain shut the fuck up for a few minutes. It only lasts for a short time because of my absorption issues. But a few minutes of silence is worth it. A few minutes of not feeling as if I’m going to implode.

• I’m so fucking ashamed. I’m so fucking ashamed of how broken I am.


There isn’t a day that goes by that I’m not thankful for my doctor and the hospital I was in. For the medications I take. For the people who did everything they could to keep me from killing myself for just one more hour. Who loved me as hard as they could when I couldn’t love myself.

Thank you. So much.