April 14th, 2019. Maybe you had an anniversary. Or a birthday. Maybe a child was born. Maybe you lost someone one close to you. But to me, that date had a different meaning. That date was my breaking point; the first day of many that I tried to take my own life.

I remember it clear as day. I can recite my note from memory. I can tell you my reasons, what I did, that I came close but never went through. I can tell you my emotions, my despair, my pain. But I instead choose to dwell on the aftermath. After inpatient, what changed? If anything at all?

I had gone through a breakup after being totally used for about a month, and that was my breaking point. I ended up telling my school counselor the next day, and she told me to go to the hospital later that night. I went, and was obviously admitted. After all, I was there after basically making an attempt on my own life.

The hospital itself was nice, the treatment I received was impeccable and honestly lifesaving. Ever since being admitted four times, I've decided that I want to become a social worker and help children like myself in the ER. But even though it helped some, I still feel horrible.

My depression is worse than ever, the entire last week has been a rapidly changing manic/depressive cycle, and every step I take to put my life back together takes me two steps back.

If it gets better, why haven't things changed? Pardon my French, but why do I still feel like ****? Why do my friends who have gone through the hospital and residential and PHP and IOP feel better, but it just makes things worse? Is there something wrong with me? Why am I like this?