For all my friends and family i know you are all feeling
frustrated, helpless, and ready
to give up. It’s not your fault. You are not the cause of our suffering.

You may find that difficult to believe, since we may lash out at you, switch from being loving and kind to non-trusting and cruel on a dime, and we may even straight up blame you. But it’s not your fault. You deserve to understand more about this condition and what we wish we could say but may not be ready.

It is possible that something that you said or did “triggered” us. A trigger is something that sets off in our minds a past traumatic event or causes us to have distressing thoughts. While you can attempt to be sensitive with the things you say and do, that’s not always possible, and it’s not always clear why something sets off a trigger.

The mind is very complex. A certain song, sound, smell, or words can quickly fire off neurological connections that bring us back to a place where we didn’t feel safe
, and we might respond in the now with a similar reaction (think of military persons who fight in combat — a simple backfiring of a car can send them into flashbacks. This is known as PTSD, and it happens to a lot of us, too.)

But please know that at the very same time that we are pushing you away with our words or behavior, we also desperately hope that you will not leave us or abandon us in our time of despair and desperation.

This extreme, black or white thinking and experience of totally opposite desires is known as a dialectic. Early on in our diagnosis and before really digging in deep with DBT (Dialectical Behavior Therapy), we don’t have the proper tools to tell you this or ask for your support in healthy ways.

We may do very dramatic things, such as harming ourselves in some way (or threatening to do so), going to the hospital, or something similar. While these cries for help should be taken seriously, we understand that you may experience “burn out” from worrying about us and the repeated behavior.

Please trust that, with professional help, and despite what you may have heard or come to believe, we CAN and DO get better.

These episodes can get farther and fewer between, and we can experience long periods of stability and regulation of our emotions. Sometimes the best thing to do, if you can muster up the strength in all of your frustration and hurt, is to grab us, hug us, and tell us that you love us, care, and are not leaving.

One of the symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder is an intense fear of being abandoned, and we therefore (often unconsciously) sometimes behave in extreme, frantic ways to avoid this from happening. Even our perception that abandonment is imminent can cause us to become frantic.

Another thing that you may find confusing is our apparent inability to maintain relationships. We may jump from one friend to another, going from loving and idolizing them to despising them – deleting them from our cell phones and unfriending them on Facebook. We may avoid you, not answer calls, and decline invitations to be around you — and other times, all we want to do is be around you.

This is called splitting, and it’s part of the disorder. Sometimes we take a preemptive strike by disowning people before they can reject or abandon us. We’re not saying it’s “right.” We can work through this destructive pattern and learn how to be healthier in the context of relationships. It just doesn’t come naturally to us. It will take time and a lot of effort.

It’s difficult, after all, to relate to others properly when you don’t have a solid understanding of yourself and who you are, apart from everyone else around you.

In Borderline Personality Disorder, many of us experience identity disturbance issues. We may take on the attributes of those around us, never really knowing who WE are.  You remember in high school those kids who went from liking rock music to pop to goth, all to fit in with a group – dressing like them, styling their hair like them, using the same mannerisms? It’s as if we haven’t outgrown that.

Sometimes we even take on the mannerisms of other people (we are one way at work, another at home, another at church), which is part of how we’ve gotten our nickname of “chameleons.” Sure, people act differently at home and at work, but you might not recognize us by the way we behave at work versus at home. It’s that extreme.

For some of us, we had childhoods during which, unfortunately, we had parents or caregivers who could quickly switch from loving and normal to abusive. We had to behave in ways that would please the caregiver at any given moment in order to stay safe and survive. We haven’t outgrown this.

Because of all of this pain, we often experience feelings of emptiness. We can’t imagine how helpless you must feel to witness this. Perhaps you have tried so many things to ease the pain, but nothing has worked. Again – this is NOT your fault.

The best thing we can do during these times is remind ourselves that “this too shall pass” and practice DBT skills – especially self-soothing – things that helps us to feel a little better despite the numbness. Boredom is often dangerous for us, as it can lead to the feelings of emptiness.  It’s smart for us to stay busy and distract ourselves when boredom starts to come on.

On the other side of the coin, we may have outburst of anger that can be scary. It’s important that we stay safe and not hurt you or ourselves. This is just another manifestation of BPD.

We are highly emotionally sensitive and have extreme difficulty regulating/modulating our emotions. Dr. Marsha Linehan, founder of DBT, likens us to 3rd degree emotional burn victims.

Through Dialectical Behavior Therapy, we can learn how to regulate our emotions so that we do not become out of control.  We can learn how to stop sabotaging our lives and circumstances…and we can learn to behave in ways that are less hurtful and frightening to you.

Another thing you may have noticed is that spaced out look on our faces. This is called dissociation. Our brains literally disconnect, and our thoughts go somewhere else, as our brains are trying to protect us from additional emotional trauma. We can learn grounding exercises and apply our skills to help during these episodes, and they may become less frequent as we get better.

But, what about you?

If you have decided to tap into your strength and stand by your loved one with BPD, you probably need support too.  Here are some ideas:

Remind yourself that the person’s behavior isn’t your fault

Tap into your compassion for the person’s suffering while understanding that their behavior is probably an intense reaction to that suffering

Do things to take care of YOU. On the resources page of this blog, there is a wealth of information on books, workbooks, CDs, movies, etc. for you to understand this disorder and take care of yourself. Be sure to check it out!

In addition to learning more about BPD and how to self-care around it, be sure to do things that you enjoy and that soothe you, such as getting out for a walk, seeing a funny movie, eating a good meal, taking a warm bath — whatever you like to do to care for yourself and feel comforted.

Ask questions. There is a lot of misconception out there about BPD.

Remember that your words, love, and support go a long way in helping your loved one to heal, even if the results are not immediately evident

Not all of the situations I described apply to all people with Borderline Personality Disorder. One must only have 5 symptoms out of 9 to qualify for a diagnosis, and the combinations of those 5-9 are seemingly endless.  This post is just to give you an idea of the typical suffering and thoughts those of us with BPD have.

This is my second year in DBT. A year ago, I could not have written this letter, but it represents much of what was in my heart but could not yet be realized or expressed.

My hope is that you will gain new insight into your loved one’s condition and grow in compassion and understand for both your loved one AND yourself, as this is not an easy road.

I can tell you, from personal experience, that working on this illness through DBT is worth the fight. Hope can be returned. A normal life can be had. You can see glimpses and more and more of who that person really is over time, if you don’t give up.  I wish you peace.

You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit.

Like it or lump it.

The only constant is change.

Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about!

Life isn’t fair!

If life gives you lemons…make lemonade.

I feel trapped. Trapped in this life I don’t want to be in, trapped inside my head, inside this messed up, used up body. Trapped by the conflicting voices that argue and debate constantly…never a minute of peace and quiet! Trapped!!!

I continue to live inside this chaotic crazy world of confusion and I don’t know which way is up anymore. I cancel appointments, I lash out at DT, tell him he isn't helping me and I hate him. I dissociate, to **** the pain, I abuse the drugs that have been prescribed, SI to try to get the bad out of me, I don’t sleep, most weekends I don’t even have the energy to go out of the house…but none of it matters….because “it’s all part of the process”…perhaps DT could provide me with a bullet point of the ‘process’ so I can see where I am now, and how many more bullet points there are to go…so I’ll have all the evidence and be able to make an ‘informed’ decision of whether I have the stamina to do it. Isn’t that part of the ‘discovery’ process?

Nothing gets processed, it never gets better. I don’t think I even understand the concept anymore. I mean I’ve read so much about it…treatment approaches; behavioral, psychodynamic, cognitive, eclectic, holistic, existential, person focused, CBT, DBT, and more! I’ve researched and studied trauma symptoms and what to expect, how to handle them. I’ve read about the long-term effects of childhood abuse…the fear of abandonment, inability to trust or feel safe, inability to self-soothe or regulate emotions, depression, anxiety, eating disorders, self injury, suicide ideation, the tendency to ‘repeat the trauma’.… oh, I “understand” it well, from an educational perspective. I have good insight. I can explain it to someone else…but emotionally, and physically…personally, I don’t comprehend it, I can’t apply it to me. It’s all just words, I have no personal connection to them. Just like the terms: mom, dad, safety, trust, intimacy…all words in a dictionary. I understand them, I know the ‘meaning’ of the words but I have no real human connection to them, they have no personal meaning to me. Like reading a physics book…all words and terms and models and notions and things…I sit and observe externally, but none of it is part of my internal world.

That’s my problem right now…(well, one of) is no one listens! *NO ONE HEARS ME!!! Everyone just shoves information at me – techniques, tools, lists, print outs, videos, cds, diary cards, words…and I see them, and hell, I’m pretty sure I could teach them all to anyone with an IQ over 50 – but how does it relate to me, to my life? The stupid exercises in DBT…”practice them” go to class, talk about them…
DBTC says, *“Don’t you feel better/happier/distracted/grounded/soothed now?” And I just pause and take an internal inventory and say, “NO!” I don’t because it doesn’t do what it’s supposed to do.
“Oh, well, then you must be doing something WRONG. You are a failure – you aren’t trying hard enough.” Yes, it’s my entire fault. I will try harder. And I try harder, and it doesn’t work, and then I become more frustrated, like a 1 year old trying to fit a round toy into a square hole. It doesn’t fit! And I try it over and over and over, and it still doesn’t fit. And I become more and more frustrated and feel more and more worthless and stupid…and no one listens because it’s my fault. I’m not trying hard enough! I should be able to do this! I should be able to ‘soothe’ myself and ‘ground’ myself and ‘feel safe’ and make him go away when he comes to me at night, and be happy when I’m sad…and pretend, pretend, pretend, fake it. Shut up and behave yourself, young lady, so everyone can see how much better you're doing...another DBT success story!

Nothing is shifting and I’m still stuck. Read it, live it, apply it, love it! I read the material like it’s a prerequisite class in college. I study it, I learn it, I recite it, I ace the exam, I can tutor others on the material…but like finite math – I’ll never use it, I don’t apply it in my own life. I don’t incorporate it on a personal level – it’s just a class I have to pass to graduate.

Nothing is stable, nothing is safe, there’s nowhere to turn, no one to turn too. There’s no one here – no one listens – no one cares about what I say is working or isn’t working. The echoes of my screams just resonate through the cavernous canyon. I look around for the Verizon network and there’s nothing – no one. No one HEARS ME! DT used to hear me, but not anymore because now you don’t have time. “Sure I do,” says Dear Therapist, “I have a whole hour.” And you can call me until 10pm each and every night, if you need too, and if I’m available and not (enter: in session,  at the hospital working, running…or just plain not wanting to answer the phone) I will listen. In other words, if everything else falls through, then 'maybe'. Gee, I should jump on that.

Truly, I should take it, run with it, put it in the blender with some water, and make lemonade for EVERYONE!

Yes, my world today is so much different now than it was then. The only difference is the scenery.

Everything is still there: the fear, the lack of trust, the lack of safety, the ED, the SI, SIB, the pieces of me, the unfamiliar woman in the mirror looking back at me.

There's no where to run to… no where to hide....from myself. That's what it comes down to in the end, I can't hide from myself, and I can't seem to help myself either.

My heart is an ***** that pumps blood through my veins…it is NOT a room for my "inner child" to live in. And no, I cannot see, or hear "Little Nita" talking or sitting beside me, and no – I will not comfort her or let her sit on my lap. I will not do those things because she is not here. "Little Nita" does not exist – I cannot see her, or hear her – she used to exist, but she grew up and became ME, "BIG Nita", "Adult Nita" – and honestly, I like the "Adult Nita" much better….big improvement. And "Little Nita" doesn't live in my heart.

If someone asks ME, "Adult Nita", I have no problem telling you about how unfair life can be sometimes. People do bad things –and I accept that. I guess my life will be filled with a perpetual struggle to find my voice. In essence, it all comes down to that. And perhaps rather than face the struggle in defensive move, always poised, on guard, ready to fight, I should embrace that ideology as one of comfort, something to look forward to. Maybe the difference between living and a life is found, not in the degree to which one succeeds in finding her voice and making it heard, but in having a voice to find in the first place. Without that constant, continual fight – you are silenced, and a spirit silenced begins to die (I know this to be true). And once this happens, one becomes empty, numb- a shadow or a shell of one's former self, with nothing constant to hold on to. My cutting – that was my "constant", my "comrade" – when everyone else walked away – I knew that I could depend on this. But perhaps I've been wrong about this too. It's not the cutting that's been the constant, but rather, my struggle to be heard. That struggle has never gone away. When everything else is stripped away, what is real will still remain. When you take away my cutting, my restricting, my past….the one thing that remains is ME, Nita, still trying to make my voice heard in a world that has never listened, never cared. And rather than fight for it, my voice, rather than embrace that struggle as one that lets me know I'm still alive, I have spent all this time fighting against it, keeping it quiet, never saying what I needed to say. Never expressing my feelings, or allowing myself to just "BE". Here – now – right in this moment. Instead, I spent my time acting out, or looking back, trying to make sense of things, or looking forward trying to get everything figured out. And I've missed the little things – the seemingly unimportant things. The "everyday stuff" that makes life what it is. Without it, life would be nothing more than a series of empty moment. And that emptiness would in turn, only fuel the hunger, the drive, the need to find one's voice…a never-ending circle. How do you find your voice and "BE" heard. A search for meaning hidden inside photographs, poems, turning thoughts into "written words"…. Searching for meaning….It's a universal struggle, regardless of the art form, I suppose….

No one cared about the 4 year old brought to the hospital with recurrent bladder infections and vaginal tears. That wasn't their job, their job was to "fix" the symptoms, not understand why they were there in the first place. When my father went to prison for what he had done and I was placed in therapy where I was required to "participate" – all I ever heard was, "you're very angry" – but no one took the time to "ask" why I was angry – because no one wanted to get involved. No one wanted to take the time. Why do you think that is? Why is that?

And all the latest "DBT" mantra, ranting, training, teaching, talking….all treatment focused on making me stop self-harming. I want to feel less depressed, I want to feel less anxious and less distressed, I want the memories and the nightmares and the compulsive thoughts to stop. And until they stop – I have no desire to stop cutting – because cutting makes them stop (at least for awhile). And it seems to ME as though no one wanted to deal with the depression and why I was depressed and self-harming…the focus seemed to ME, to be much like Pavlov's approach when he trained the dogs……it seemed to ME that you thought, "if I say MINDFULNESS, or DBT, or MEANING-MAKING, she will make the connection that she must stop cutting." Or perhaps the experiment of the rat who received a shock each time he displayed an unacceptable "behavior" – eventually, the rat will no longer do it. There was no longer an interest, or a care, about ME, but only interest and care in stopping the unacceptable behavior….so that the patient can go back to work, and function as a normal human being, in society. I no longer existed- and that confused ME – because I cut myself – I bleed – I see the blood – I must exist.

But you insisted that DBT was the answer! You no longer saw ME, you saw only the behavior, the behavior that needed to stop. Suddenly I am lost in a sea of "symptoms". And I exist no more.
And yet, I do exist – because here I am. Not the "trauma patient" the "cutter" the "ED" the "CSA Victim"~ not "the stubborn child" "the willful child" "the angry child" – but ME. The ME that somehow got lost in this process – ME – the intelligent, successful, caring woman who succeeded in spite of her childhood. The woman with a heart of gold, the woman whose smile could light up a room.. ME! ME! Nita – my favorite color is green, my favorite flower is a violet – my favorite food is tacos– I love the smell of clean laundry and rain when it just starts falling, I love the feel of a newborn baby’s head. I love to watch the sun set. I love to drink coffee out of the cup my daughters gave me 5 years ago that says, "Happy Mother's Day”. I love to make my husband dance to Air Supply even though he pretends he doesn't like it.

ME…Nita ~ I’ve known you for 3 years, but I don’t think we’ve ‘met’.

I remember when I was a teenager and we lived across from a cemetery. I used to go there and walk around, reading headstones. It must seem like such an odd place for a teenager to want to be, but it was beautiful and it brought me peace in a way I can’t explain. One morning, I was walking through the cemetery, it had just stopped raining and as I carefully weaved my way through the gravestones, I felt this all-consuming loneliness envelope me. Suddenly it was as though I couldn’t breathe, my vision narrowed and the tears began to tumble down my cheeks like rain. I sat down on the wet grass and cried until there were no more tears. My jeans were wet and I was chilled to the bone but I didn’t care. Sometimes, still today, I miss that cemetery. Even though everyone there was ‘dead’ it somehow made me feel comforted and less alone…maybe that’s because I felt ‘dead and alone’ inside too.

Its overcast here today, clouds hover close to the ground making me feel cold and depressed…in a strange way, my body seems to be telling me that something dreadful is going to happen soon. And I feel the innermost part of my hidden self continues to push forward in a burdensome and wearing way…an uninvited guest arriving at an inopportune time. My body continues to tell me secrets I never wanted to know, and I am held captive, unable to escape. The aching pain inside me, the unmet needs, I am a long way from understanding them, or even endure them. Despite the ‘self-soothing’ skills I have learned, I do not have what I need inside of me to ‘heal’ my pain. I could have enough DBT skills to fill the Atlantic Ocean and it wouldn’t be enough to offset the pain.

And I will forever bear the mark of a woman with a personality disorder, a mood disorder. I will always bear the label of a woman who’s a self-mutilator. I will always carry the brand of ‘****** survivor’ and I will forever take medication just to stay alive. And the paradox is that as much as I abhor those labels, I find that I need them. They are me, they flow through my veins and when no one else is here, they are. Somehow they seem to explain the loneliness and despair. They illuminate why I feel as though I am broken into a million pieces, unable to put myself back together again. But I have nothing concrete to show for this abundance of internal pain. What I have are jagged external scars running from my knees to my thighs, across my abdomen that are a constant reminder of a time I did not choose life over death. Scars that I can hide from others, but I will never be able to hide from myself. What I have are 10 different bottles of medication and a pharmacist who knows me by name.  What I have is sadness captured in a few photos from childhood, hidden in a cardboard box in the corner of the den closet…photos that have bear the fingerprints of someone who wants a normal childhood, even today. What I don’t have, however, is my mind, an ability to trust, or an ability to rationalize and be a ‘normal’ human being. I carry with me a multitude of broken promises scattered on the bathroom floor, mingled with my blood. I look in the mirror and the woman looking back at me isn’t the ‘confident professional’ I pretend to be – in the mirror, without the mask, is the terrified, hurting little girl who has no idea if she is even real.

And every single day I look around and I try to figure out who I am, because at any given moment I could be someone different. I am breathing, I can feel my heart beating – but it isn’t me. It doesn’t matter what ‘self’ I put on to dazzle and charm the crowd, I no longer need my father to remind me that I am unwanted…unloved. There is a voice inside of me, an internal judge, who repeats all my father said to me, over and over again.

I wanted a teacher, a role model, someone to teach me what I never learned. I wanted to believe that they were real and genuine and not like my father. I wanted someone to tell me that I am real and that I do matter. I wanted someone to know all of the people who live within me, and still care. I no longer think that person exists.

Dear me (age 13),
     Congrats, you're a teenager! Get ready for some of the best times of your life and also some of the worst. When you hear that old saying "You never know what you had until its gone," don't just shrug it off. Never take anyone or anything for granted. Soon you will loose someone important. Don't be afraid to mourn. It's okay to cry. Let it out.
With Love,
An older you

Dear me (age 14),
     Middle School is rough, but you're almost done. Keep going. Gymnastics is rough this year competing two seasons in a row, but I promise you its worth it. You'll be so much better because of it. Don't give up!
With Love,
An older you

Dear me (age 15),
      Hello again. Welcome to High School. You're first midterms are coming up. Study a little harder than you think you need to. It's worth it. This year gymnastics will make you the happiest person in the world. Just a warning though, at the top of the highest mountain, there is no where left to go but down. Also thank mom for making you work in the guidance office during study hall. These people will become some of your biggest advocates.
With Love,
An older you

Dear me (age 16),
      When the beam coach says you need to stop gymnastics for a bit to rest your back, listen. Do not keep going when her back is turned. When the bars coach says to stop arching your back, listen. Please listen. But when the head coach tells you to loose 10 lbs, don't. Don't listen. Instead curse her out, tell her how that makes you feel, tell her that she is a horrible human being, and how much you can't stand her, but whatever you do, do not ever let her words control you. You are perfectly beautiful. At regionals, don't go for the double back dismount off bars. End with the full twist instead. But don't be ashamed if you don't make it to nationals. Instead, rest, heal, get better. Skip all the other doctors you think you should see. Instead schedule an appointment with  Dr. Greenberg like the head coach keeps insisting you do. I know its scary and painful right now. But the physical pain will go away.
With Love,
An older you

Dear me (age 17),
     Life is harder than ever right now. The physical pain is awful, but the emotional pain is worse. I'm so sorry this had to happen to you. But please whatever you do, do not pick up that razor. The urges to hurt yourself will only get stronger the more you give in. Its a trap so hard to get out of, you will wonder if you ever can. Instead pick up your camera, swim farther, call a friend. Anything!
With Love,
An older you

Dear me (age 18),
     When you spend the afternoons of your senior year at a mental health facility, embrace the help your getting. Remember the lessons you learn, they will only help you in the long run. Have fun on senior trip, and don't let anyone bring you down! When you start college, don't be so quick to trust your roommate. The girl you met in the bathroom while moving in though, trust her with your life. She will be your best friend. And I honestly don't know where you would be without her.
With Love,
An older you

Dear me (age 19),
     Stop blaming yourself for falling asleep everywhere, and ask the doctor to change your medication. Accept the fact that you have a mental illness and its okay to not be okay. Keep eating lunch and dinners with your friends. Don't forget to thank dad every day when you both live out of a hotel room, so you can finish freshman year. Embrace DBT, and learn to live by it. Sophomore year will start out okay, but will head downhill pretty quickly. When your roommate talks about her sorority, listen. These girls will become you're best friends and biggest supporters (besides blood related family of course). Don't worry too much though, you'll make it through, with the love and support of your family and amazing sisters at school.
With Love,
An older you

Dear me (age 20),
     I've only known you for a couple of days, barely even two weeks really. but please keep going. Keep fighting. It has to get better at some point. right?
With love and hope,
Yourself

Blackness that’s all I remember. Pain that’s all I felt. I was just 12 when death started calling my name. My name is Becca and this is my story well was… I was 12 and my older sister was babysitting me and my little sister. Death…....that was the first time I actually seriously thought about it. I held the knife up to my chest my heart beating rapidly , terrified and just didn’t want to fight anymore, I dropped the knife. I fought the thoughts of death off 6th through 7th grade. Eighth grade was a rough year, I went to Waunakee schools and I was bullied a lot. I got picked on because scars covered my body. That’s where my story really begins. It was January of 2015 and I lost it I found the pill bottle and counted out exactly fourteen pills because that is the age I didn't want to see. I was found by my parents; they called the police refusing to let me end my pain. That’s when things started to really going down hill.
6th grade:
6th grade I got picked on because I like different things I wasn’t the average kid that was into what everybody else was. I also could be considered a religious freak. That year my grandma had been diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic cancer. I prayed for her constantly. Thinking it would make her better. That year I had also learned about the holocaust. That made me not sleep at night. I was constantly terrified. I started hearing voices then.  I never told anyone I thought it was the devil so I just started praying. I thought about killing myself many times. I never went through with it because I was scared of death and what came after it. I constantly fought myself.
7th grade:
That year was unexplainably one of the worst years of my life. My older sister started seeing a therapist. I didn’t know why. My religion had always said to depend on God when you were having a difficult time. I got picked on majorly that year because people thought I was lesbian but, I said no way in hell am I lesbian. that year my parents told me they didn’t believe in God. I was already majorly depressed and well I hid that. That was the last thing I needed. I started cutting. I stopped because I didn’t want anyone to see. I was friends with this one girl named Taylor she was super tiny and well I was bigger than her. One day she called me fat. I already had body image issues. I stopped eating. I was anorexic. As of March 2014 I was 5’0 and 72 pounds. I was taken to the doctors and well I wasn’t hospitalized. My parents just sat down with me until I ate the food that they put on my plate. I wasn’t allowed to serve myself at all because they were afraid I was going to starve myself. I wasn’t allowed to pack my own lunch, little do they know, that only made things worse. My older sister would pack me a meat sandwich. Meat was never my favorite thing. especially meat sandwiches. I never really ate at school when I was younger I always threw away my lunches if I didn’t like them.  I always had a hard time eating. Recovering was one of the hardest things I had ever done in my life. Little had I known that what was coming next would change my life forever.

Summer: The summer going into eighth grade was so hard for me. My parents let us go to church but was hesitant with every week that went by. That summer I turned thirteen and as usual by birthday was hell. I was losing myself with everyday that passed. Then I started playing this game called Meez. It made my depression worse because then I started getting bullied on the game. I didn’t stop playing because I didn’t have friends. The only ones I did have were online.  
Eighth grade:
Everyday was a battle; I could barely get out of bed. The first part of eighth grade was a blur. Kids picked on me. My grades were dropping faster than a blink of an eye. I had no friends. The friends I did have turned on me. I was all alone facing my battle of depression. I started cutting majorly. It was bad. Till one day we didn’t have school, It was a Monday. I remember that day like it was yesterday. My mom took us to Pizza Hut for lunch. Then we came home. My dad was gone at a meeting. My mom went to drop my older sister off for babysitting. Now was my chance. I run to the cupboard grab the bottle of ibuprofen counted exactly fourteen pills. I was scared to be honest I stood there for a minute thinking this is the last night. I took them. I ran upstairs crying. My little sister looked at me and saw I was upset and asked me what was wrong. All I could say was “I’m sorry. I know I’m not the greatest sister but, I love you so much.” My mom came home then and I went downstairs. She saw that I was crying. She asked me what was the matter. I bursted into tears again. All I could say was “I’m sorry” over and over again.  Then she yelled at me telling me to say what the hell I did. That’s when I told her. She started crying. She started calling the cops. I started screaming “NO! LET ME DIE! I’M MISERABLE!”  I heard the sirens coming. My dad walked in asking what was going on, my mom told him. She was shaking so hard and crying. The police walked in they questioned me thoroughly.  I was rushed to the hospital. I had so many tests done. I spent the night there. The next day I was discharged from the UW hospital and admitted to the Meriter child and adolescent psychiatric facility.


Hospital:
´´Hi my name is Becca.´´
  were my first words there. I was terrified and still wanted to die.  The first thing I really participated in was karaoke. It was ok I guess I laughed so, I could get out of there as fast as I could. I spent the next day being angry that I hadn’t died, then the second day I was there that’s when I met him.  But I’ll get to that later. I spent the next 5 days attending group therapy, DBT, mindfulness, and many other things.
Miles:
When I first saw him I stopped and stared. It was like time had stopped. (this is where I would stop if you don’t feel like going through an emotional rollercoaster and have your heart ripped out.)  When he entered the day room I couldn’t get over his shirt. It was a Sleeping with Sirens shirt they were my favorite band. Then his eyes, piercing ice blue eyes that screamed out in pain. Then I just stopped talking because he looked irritated. The next morning I was as quiets as a mouse then he sat by me and started conversation. We got along I was like one of the only people he talked to. Movie night that’s when things changed. He said he wanted to just hold me. That is a night I never wished had happened. He talked to me constantly. He confided in me, he trusted me. I thought he loved me as I loved him. Two days later I got released from the hospital. I cried that day because all I wanted to do was stay by him to make sure he was ok.


After Miles:  
My parents found out we were dating and they made me leave him. I struggled.  I loved him. He was my world. I regret to say I still love him but, I would be lying if I said I didn’t. I had tried to **** myself right in front of my parents after they told me I couldn’t talk to him anymore. I felt so much pain. Then a month later my older sister tried killing herself. I tried killing myself a couple days later.  I was sent to another mental hospital.


The other Mental Hospital:
I was sent to St.Luke’s it’s a step down from Winnebago. It was scary at St.Luke’s you couldn’t even go to the bathroom without having someone unlock the door. There were no paper towels. You had to share a room. Showers were 15 minutes. We had to be at least 2 feet from the other patients. We also didn’t talk about our problems; we had to do worksheets instead.
October 19 2015:
I knew that day that I wanted it to be my last. I went to school and acted like everything was fine even though I knew what I had planned. I went home did my homework, ate supper, did the dishes, and had a bonfire with my family. When everyone went to bed I pulled out my shiny, bottle of advil, and hard cider. I downed the hard cider and 30 advil. I sliced my wrist up the blood was slithering down my arm. I was rushed to the hospital I stayed at the UW for 2 days. I was then admitted to the Meriter child and adolescent psychiatric facility again . It was hell as usual. I got back the following Monday. I went back to school the next day. things are starting to get a little bit better. The suicidal thoughts and thoughts of self harm are still there but I have new coping skills.  

Goodbye note (I had wrote this hoping someone would find it after I died but, obviously I’m still here”):
I had set my suicide date to January 31st but I can’t do this. I feel like a walking Zombie. I tried everything to hide the pain and deal with the pain. So this is goodbye I guess. You will never know my full story. No one will but me. The demons I faced have taken hold of me. I took 30 pills because 15 is the age I do not want to see and I couldn’t imagine living double that time. <3 you all dearly.  

Seven letter one word ends it all:
I’m guessing you are wondering what that word is. Well It’s suicide. S for self harm. U for useless. I for I hate myself. C for crying all the time. I for illegal substances. D for death. E for ending it all. This is my story and I’m fighting a battle everyday.