I've always been the careful type, keeping to myself and never saying my true feelings just in case I spill them to the wrong person. One of my greatest fears has always been everyone finding out how much of a mess I really am. Maybe if I was a bit truer to myself I wouldn't have ended up in the one place I never wanted to be. A place that is stereotyped to be filled with crazy people and psychos, the psych ward. It's scary thinking about it. Sleeping in the same room as strangers with mental illnesses never knowing if they're safe to be around.  The hard leather beds, coloring pages, and bendable pencils. They'll always be in my memory no matter what.

 I tried so hard for years, sugarcoating my therapy sessions enough that they thought of me as no threat to myself. Even when I would relapse the simple words," but I would never try killing myself. This was just a small setback." They would keep me safe, away from the place I hated thinking about. It's almost been a year, a whole year without any hospitalizations. A year since I experience being questioned every morning to see if I made progress in the last 24 hours. A year since I cried realizing what I did to my body. On October 31, 2021, I tried overdosing with 4,500 mg of Tylenol and three shots of whiskey. The next morning I was planning on going on as if nothing happened but that same week I promised my partner to try and get better. I woke up, took a shower, and walked to school. I knew what I had to do even if I dreaded it. There have been many promises I have made but I knew this was one I just couldn't break. 

The first thing I did once I asked to go to the councilors office was apologize to my partner, who was going home with a migraine, without telling them what I did. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I did something bad." I blurted out while gasping for air every second I could. He tried his best to comfort me but it's hard to comfort someone who knows they're gonna be sent away. It hurt me more than everything else I've experienced. The pain in their eyes, the panic. I got called into the office shortly after before I can completely explain what happened.   I tried my best to explain what happened to my counselor but nothing but my sobs could be heard. She has to calm me down by having me breathe before I was able to tell her anything. She told me she was proud of me. Proud of me for being able to speak up and choose to get better. Then she gave me one of the hardest choices, "Do you think you should go to the hospital?" 

“Yes.”

My mother didn't have the best reaction but her reaction was out of love. She just wanted to see me better. "WHY DIDNT YOU JUST TELL ME? WHY DID I HAVE TO HEAR FROM SOMEONE ELSE?" she yelled while we were walking home. I had always tried hiding things from her cause I never wanted her to worry but maybe I hid for too long. I made her feel like I didn't trust her. I made her spend restless nights having to worry about losing her kid. I don't blame her for yelling but that doesn't mean it didn't hurt. She didn't say a word the whole drive to the hospital. When we arrived I got sent straight to the ER to make sure I didn't cause my liver to shut down with the alcohol and pills. Deep down I hoped that it did. I hoped that my attempt to hurt myself really did succeed but the second they gave me my results I was relieved. I didn't do any fatal harm to my body. I stayed in the ER waiting for the IV to finish flushing out the Tylenol and get it back to normal levels.

Around 1 am I was taken to the psych ward in a wheelchair. I got taken into a small room filled with nurses. I was asked to remove my clothing and any jewelry. I got asked to explain every bruise and every wound. I was then given two hospital gowns to cover my cold wounded body. I was then escorted to a dark room with 8 leather beds. The only people were the nurse watching us and another patient. I laid down on one of the beds and tried huddling up to keep myself as warm as possible. I stared at the clock as the streams of tears began to fall and blur my vision. I cried myself to sleep that night. 

When I woke up I was given a handwritten letter from my mom telling me how much she loved me and that she'd see me soon. A few moments later the psychiatrist came in and started calling everyone one by one to go talk about how they have been feeling. When it got to me I talked to him and made sure to tell him it was a mistake. That everything I was feeling that night has sub-sighted. I was then dismissed and continued to do nothing until the kid on the other bed decided to ask why I was there. We then began to talk and entertain ourselves by telling stories. 

I hated every bit of it. The hospital food, hard beds, and sleeping schedule. I hated it all but it kept us safe. With the bendy pens, flimsy toothbrushes, and grippy socks.  I didn't really see it as a place to do any healing until the second day when I asked the psychiatrist when id be allowed to leave. I wanted to leave the second I could so I thought convincing him I was okay and being all bubbly like I always act would help him make his decision. My whole facade crumbled once he said, "I don't think you realize you almost died that night." The fake smile I had put on was seen through. He left without saying anything else. I sat down on the plastic chairs and started crying. I cried thinking about how I felt that night and how much it would've pained my loved ones if I had died that night. It was the first time I had really thought about it. Thought about how bad I had actually gotten.

That was my wake-up call. I had always thought I wasn't bad enough to get any help but an adult telling me surprised me. I've always been invalidated by the adults around me and comforted by my peers. I never had someone older accept that I wasn't okay. My parents would tell me they love me and get me therapy but when id try to tell them about how I felt id get shut down. Told that they gone through worse. I tried confiding with my older sisters but they'd call me dramatic but he saw me. I know that's his job but it was relieving.  I finally felt like I deserved to get help for all the things I would bottle up.

The second I stepped out of that hospital I made sure that everything from that moment on would be better. I would give my therapy sessions my all and advocate for myself. I would start eating and stop hurting myself. I would put myself first and prioritize my mental health. I started taking medication to calm down my anxieties and feelings. I still have my ups and downs but the way I see things now is different. I have better relationships with the people around me and taking care of my pets better than I did before. I don't randomly start arguments with my family and shut out the people I love the most. Of course, I still have things to learn and things to improve but if you compared Bee from a year ago to me, you'd see a whole different person.