The Diary of Me

the second time.

after getting out of my first psych ward, it was quickly shown that there were more underlying issues. i realized that i wasn't self harming because i liked seeing my blood- something that the staff was adamant about. i was self harming because i hated seeing my body. i was fat and i hated it. i always had issues with being fat. thanks to my mother i stayed relatively thin throughout my childhood and into middle school, but in 7th grade a kid named Cole pointed to an elephant on his computer and said "that's alyssa" and i saw myself in a different light. i started skipping meals. logically, i knew i wasn't fat. i was one of the only twelve year olds that had yet to break 100 pounds, but i wanted to make sure i never did.
i was still thirteen, a month after getting out of my first treatment. in order to get my insurance to cover the bill, i had to go to counseling once a week for at least eight weeks. i hated my counselor. she was old. she looked at me with pity, and she talked to me like i was going to break any second. my family still didn't know i was using heroin. they figured i was acting out because i was sad, and i was. but not for the reasons they thought.
i ended up going into treatment once again after my counselor told them i was skipping meals as a new form of self harm, though i was still harming myself in my extreme measures. it was the same process, going to the emergency room, then being transferred the the building that contained the psychiatric ward. this time though, i was shown kindness. it was almost dinner time and they did the paperwork, let me wear my normal clothes immediately, and then showed me to my room and i met my roommate for the time being. we were all called to dinner, we ate, and then we went back to our rooms until the next group session would be called before going to bed.
this kindness didn't last. the next morning i met with my psychiatrist and he told me i was going down a dark path that would lead me to my death— as if it was to scare me. he thought i would be scared of dying, that somehow something would click and i would change. i wasn't scared of death, i'm still not. i told him to go fuck himself and that i was late for group.
my entire treatment, my eating disorder wasn't mentioned. i would eat and then go back to my room where i would throw up. i pretended being sick in order to get out of meals and group, when you're sick in the hospital they quarantine you and put you on a liquid diet for 24 hours. liquids were easier to throw up.
my treatment lasted shortly, the day before my discharge i told my psychiatrist i was not ready to leave. i told him i had made no progress and that my problems have actually become worse since being in the hospital. i told him if i was discharged i would kill myself as soon as i got the chance.

he told me to invite him to my funeral.