Blog Entry: The Inpatient Psych Unit and all that fun stuff.

The Inpatient Psych Unit and all that fun stuff. I should have posted this like five days ago, but I didn't really the time or energy to write it out. I don't necessarily have the energy now either, but I want to get it done with so there.

In case any of you noticed I was gone from Valentine's Day to this past Tuesday, I figured I might as well give you a reason.

Soooo.... On Sunday (February 12th), I was feeling superuberduper crappy. Like, really suicidal and bad and horrible. And I have therapy on Mondays, so I figured I might as well write down how I was feeling and give it to my therapist the next day. I did, talking about how I was cutting again and how much I just wanted to die, how I was fighting the urge to jump off that damn bridge every day when we crossed over it on the way to school, how much I just didn't see the point in living anymore and how I knew I would do it very soon: die. I did end up giving it to my therapist, and, after reading it, she decided to bring my mom in and tell us our options. I could sign a safety contract, saying I wouldn't hurt myself, and if I felt in danger of hurting myself I would have to tell someone and be sent to the ER, or just go to the ER then. I told my mom and therapist that I didn't think I could hold up to a safety contract, and so we got in the car, got McDonald's on the way, and headed to the Emergency Room. Once we got there, I got an ID band and we were sat in the waiting room for forever. We got there at 7:30 and were placed in an actual room at about... 8:45? We waited in the actual room for a while, every once in a while having to answer the exact same questions over and over again and me getting my vitals checked and all that fun stuff. Eventually we got to see the Psychiatrist, who talked to us both individually, and then this really douche-y dude who decided whether or not I should be hospitalized. He was the only guy we saw, and also the only person who gave me a lecture about cutting and stuff. I didn't like him very much. .< I was put in the B group, which consists of the 10-13 year olds, which sucked. Because that meant I was with the 11 year old boys who had behavior issues, not the 16 year old people with depression like me like I would have preferred. I mean, how is learning how to share supposed to help me be happier? Seriously.

I was terrified to get out and I know it was justified; being out of the hospital is just as unsafe and triggering as I thought it would be. Yay. And that's my wonderful story. If you actually read that whole thing I applaud you. *claps*