So I went to the day program that following Tuesday.  It was an amazing program.  My case manager, Doug, was the best.  We had the greatest conversations.  I got to meet with him every day and it was total therapy for me.  We did recreational therapy where we did crafts twice a week and played outburst or scattergories the rest of the days.  We had psychoeducation where we learned about our medications and various problems people with mental health issues have problems with.  Then there was group therapy…

Group therapy was led by a social worker, Gail, and it was both my favorite and least favorite part of the day.  It was everything I was terrified of: people staring at me and my face turning red when I was called on.  But I was at the program for almost four weeks and I learned to deal with that.  I learned that it's not really that big of a deal and the people around me told me so when I brought up how painful an issue it is with me.  My bright red face.  One poor woman brought it up one day and I just burst out into tears.  Then I made a sarcastic comment back at her and it was just a mess.  But anyway, group therapy turned out to be amazing in the fact that I was forced to deal with my issues.  I was called on and learned to talk about things.  I confided in these people that I didn't even know and it felt really good!  Of course, there were some pretty bad days where I walked out, but still–overall, it was a positive experience.

Being there almost four weeks, I was beginning to feel that I was wearing out my welcome.  That, and the fact that the insurance company was going to stop approving my days spent there made it so that I was going to have to leave.  Now, I got pretty attached to this program.  I loved meeting new people (who I still keep in contact with and see) and having therapy everyday felt like the thing that was keeping me sane.  Well, the day before my final day–I had a breakdown.

I walked out of group therapy and went to see my case manager.  We were discussing my future when I told him that I didn't even see myself having one, blah, blah.  You can guess what happened.  He told me that I had three options:  I could go to the ER, be walked over to inpatient, or tell him my plan so we could work something out.  I told him my plan (stupid).  I said that I was going to take pills.  He told me that if I brought in all of the meds I had been hoarding, we would discuss this further the next day.  So I went home feeling defeated and wondering if I should just take the pills that night and get things over with.  I actually took three pills before stopping myself and saying that this was not the way to be doing things.

I went and grabbed my mom and explained that we were about to have a very serious discussion.  I told her about my day and how I was planning to take all of my meds that night in an attempt to kill myself.  She started bawling.  Flat out bawling.  I've never seen her cry that hard before.  It was horrible.  She ran over and put her arms around me and wasn't the same the rest of the evening.  I ruined her.  To this day, I feel terrible for telling her those things.  But I couldn't help it.  I needed help!  I told my father after her and he said that it was all very "disheartening."  They thought I had become so improved from the partial program and now I was talking suicide.  I broke both of their hearts that night.  I felt worse than I had when I had started taking the pills.  They took my meds away from me that night and kept them.  Safe and feeling like shit.  Awesome.

The next day I went in and told my case manager that my parents had confiscated my meds and I would be fine.  He told me to speak with my psychiatrist–the one at the hospital.  I did.  He asked me if I thought I could keep myself safe.  I couldn't answer him!  It didn't feel honest to say yes, but usually I'm damn good at lying about things.  But I couldn't do it.  So he said that I would go to the inpatient unit that afternoon.  I sat around until lunchtime when my case manager walked me over to the unit.  I cried.  Yeah.  I started doing a lot of that after a month of being unable to cry.

Back in the hospital things weren't as bad as the first time.  Everyone knew me there, the food didn't taste nearly as much like crap, and taking my meds crushed in applesauce didn't seem quite as painful as the last time.  It was a pleasant visit and one that I desperately needed.  I needed time to myself and a place to feel safe.  I hated to admit it, but I did.  I thought it was good to be away from my parents for a while too.  They needed time to think and I needed time to do the same. 

Leaving the hospital was hard.  I had a breakdown my last night there.  My roommate caught me crying and came over and sat down next to me.  We talked and I explained that I wasn't going to be used to not having therapy everyday.  It's what I had known for the past month and a half.  What would I do everyday?  My roommate calmed me down and assured me that everything would be okay.  Turns out, everything is okay.

I feel better than ever.  Odd, especially for this time of the year.  That entire experience I underwent (day program and hospital) helped me more than six years of therapy.  I'll never forget everything that happened–the good and the bad. 

I had a follow-up appointment with my psychiatrist the day after I got out of the hospital.  We discussed what had happened as far as the suicide thing and he made a statement that he's made in the past:  "If you wanted to be dead, you would've done it already."  Now, in the past, this has always bothered me to the max.  It felt like a challenge.  I didn't understand how he could say something like that to someone who's suicidal.  It felt like a challenge for crying out loud!  I don't need another reason to do it!  But something clicked with me this time that told me he was right.  I would have done it already had I really wanted to.  I mean, I tried back in 2004 and was caught in the act on another occasion, but did I really want to die?  No.  I just want the pain to go away.  Maybe it took that whole experience for me to be able to view my doctor's words in a better light.  I want to live.  That much I know now.

On a side note away from this entry:  I'm going to go back to college.  Give it another go.  This spring or next fall I'll start.  I'm going to study psychology.  I finally convinced myself to go for the bachelor's in psychology because there are so many different routes you can take from there.  PhD.  School counselor.  Social worker.  Etc.  So that's what I'm going to do. 

I feel as though things are improving.  I'm actually thinking positive thoughts when I wake up in the morning.  I learned at the program that I am in control.  I just need to focus on the things I am in control of and my life can be greatly improved.  That's what I'm going to do.