I don't know where to begin.

We know that your mental state has not been the best as of late. The usual depression that you have this time of year (and in general) has been spiraling for awhile. You hit a new low this weekend.

Just another day, Friday was. You woke up in a funk. Normal, sadly. You went and interviewed at Deer Creek, which went decently. You spent time with Beck. Normal. You got lunch with Jen. Fine. You went back to the apartment. You looked around. The idea of having to pack it up and start getting rid of things ate at you. You were lonely. Sad. You couldn't stop thinking about how all of this pressure, all of this sadness, anxiety, paranoia, circumstances--EVERYTHING--was falling on your shoulders. To the point where you were exhausted, broken, beaten in every way possible. You physically hurt, just sitting on the couch, staring at books and homework and bills and to-do lists. Everything felt so heavy, so unbearable. You realized that you could not do this for much longer. Something had to give. You spiraled down, hard. You get a text from Andy, who you had not heard from in months. He wants to get a drink. He has broken up with his girlfriend and has suddenly remembered that you only hang out when he is in need of someone to complain to. You go, against better judgment. You are not in a good place, and putting alcohol and Andy's whining in your system did not help. You leave a couple hours later, not drunk. Definitely safe to drive physically. Mentally, probably not. You find yourself praying that your car crashes. That someone hits you. You make it to the apartment in one piece. You are disappointed. You make another drink. Why not? You sit down. and something snaps. You realize that you cannot take anything anymore. You decide that God cannot fire you, because you quit.

You slice at yourself for awhile. You keep drinking. You look around for something to take, anything, to make all the shit swirling around stop. However, you also know, in the back of your insane mind, that this is not a good idea. The tiny sliver of rationale texts Beck. Tells her you need her, and to get there. She does. You decide that this environment is not good for you. You are not safe here, and you need to leave. You go to the hospital, where you are admitted to the psych ward.

They take your clothes and give you scrubs. They take your mittens, gloves, scarf, shoes. They take your phone and bag. They give you a room, but first you have to give a verbal agreement that you will not attempt to do any further damage to yourself. Fine, fair enough.

You sleep. A lot. When you are not sleeping, you are pacing around your tiny room, crying. You're bored. You find yourself thinking, among other things, that leaving a mentally disturbed person with nothing to do but be in their own mind is the WORST IDEA EVER. You ask for things to write on and with, you are denied. apparently you could hurt yourself with them. You talk to several people, answer lots of questions, and tell too many strangers very abbreviated versions of your life at this moment. You hate every second of it. You eat lunch with the other patients. You don't speak to them, they don't speak to you. it's not an ego thing. You just do not feel like talking. You do not feel like answering questions. You assume they feel the same way.

All this leads up to your final chat session with the head honcho, who reads your chart and all the notes from the half dozen other people that have asked you questions, and basically tells you that you need therapy and drugs. He tells you that you will be given a prescription for anti-depressants and an anti-anxiety pills, then, after asking about your sleeping habits, prescribes a sleep aid. Then tells you that he is releasing you out into the world again.

This news makes you happy and terrified at the same time. You are ready to get out and have your freedom again...however, you weirdly enjoy the simplicity of being in. The outside world suddenly seems so giant, and you, so teeny.

You wish that you had some sort of mind-blowing epiphany from all this. You don't. You wish that you could say you felt better. You do, sort of. You also acknowledge that this could happen again. You wish that things would magically fix themselves. You realize that they can't and won't. You have to work for it.

So.
Now begins the work, I guess.