It’s going on a year now since I was in the psych hospital for the first time. A short time after that, I went in again because of a half-assed suicide attempt that sent my family into a state of shock, disgust and an intense fear that I was beyond help. 

Except for my mother, who was by my side for the duration. 

It was like living in a horror movie, especially after they put me on Brintellix. I was afraid to even exist. I was in a constant state of extreme panic and all I wanted to do was die.

Imagine that for a moment. All you can think about is wanting to kill yourself. Every minute of the day. Even while you’re asleep, your dreams are haunted. There was no escaping it. 

I told my therapist about all of this yesterday. (I really love this lady, she is the best. I actually look forward to seeing her every week.)


The fear of that happening again weighs heavily on my mind and she told me that it was actually a good thing for me to remember.

“When I think about wanting to die now, I find that I don’t want to.”

“That must have been just awful for you.”

“It was. It scared the shit out of me. It still does.”

I did learn a few things last year, namely not to blindly trust the doctors. If a medication makes me worse instead of better, I will not allow them to raise the dosage. I am getting off of the stuff immediately.

I also learned that being in a psych hospital, although unpleasant and as boring as watching paint dry, does not mean that I am a lost cause.

Life is no cake walk and I still have bad days. I continue to have anxiety and depression, on a lower scale. But, I am stronger now because of what happened to me last year.