Hello, I posted here before when I wanted to end it all, and someone graciously put my situation into logical terms that I could understand. I still feel a bit suicidal, I won't lie to you all; though, I am doing a small bit better. I'm assuming it's not okay to talk about what I tried to do to kill myself and land myself in the hospital - I can understand that. But I do wish to go into detail on the overall experience at the hospital. Please note, my story takes place before I started seeking help here. It starts with my getting "arrested". Not really prosecuted or anything, but long story short, I got to ride in a cop car. At four in the morning. Fun. Woke my parents up, got cuffed and stuffed in the back of the car. I remember looking down at my hands and arms, plenty of scars from cutting my wrists. The police officer started to move this device around, and he pointed it in my direction. He asked, "Is it okay if we film you?" I agreed because I didn't feel like providing a reason for saying "no". I stared at the lens of that camera the entire ride. I said nothing. The small talk the officer tried to make was answered with silence. I knew what I tried to do, why they came and got me, and where I was going. I got dropped off at the hospital and entered through the "emergency" entrance, if you know what I'm talking about - the entrance you'll see people on stretchers go in? That one. As I walked in, I saw so many faces looking at me. My first thought was "Why are they all staring at me?" Then I looked back down at my hands. I still had the cuffs on, and my scars were in open view. Fuck. I have really long hair that covers my eyes completely if not pulled back, I'm pretty tall and since it was four in the morning, I couldn't exactly walk straight. Looking back, I must've looked like quite the mess stumbling about the place in what could easily be construed as a drunken stagger. A kind nurse guided me towards a room. I had been to hospitals before, for a tonsil removal and a case of inflamed lymph nodes in my intestinal track. None of those rooms were like the one I was put into this time. One bed, right in the centre of the room. Four thick, concrete walls surrounded me, my only escape was through a door that the nurses kept locked shut. That's right, I was in the suicide-watch room. Eventually, one of the nurses came in the room and asked me to take a piss test. Usual procedure I suppose. I don't take any drugs or drink, so I went without hesitation and pissed in the cup. I remember being so tired, I actually pissed on my hand for a few seconds before noticing I was missing the cup. Day just gets better and better. What the nurses didn't realise was the fact that they didn't take my wallet. I managed to sneak it because I wanted to look at a photo I had in there. Well...there's also a small razor in the wallet. I took apart a pencil sharpener and put the blade in my wallet in case I ever needed it. Usually, I cut whenever I'm feeling either depressed or anxious. I get really anxious in certain public situations, so I'll "use the restroom" and go off to cut in a stall and use the blade of the pencil sharpener. Now was one of those times. I guess I took too long at the facilities and one of the doctors came to check up on me to see if I was okay. And I suppose that multiple wrist wounds doesn't really define as "okay". I wasn't trying to kill myself, I was trying to feel comfortable. Two cops and 3 doctors had to "medically apprehend" me because I wasn't giving that blade up. A doctor patched my arms up, and this time, I was handcuffed to the bed. I waited, and waited, and waited some more. I waited until this one lady walked in. I don't remember her name; mind you, this was probably at around 7 in the morning at this point. I got no sleep that night. This lady asked me a whole bunch of questions. She was really nice to me and had a degree of empathy, not like most of people I know, but I paid no mind to it. The only thing on my mind was Chelsea, and getting the fuck out of this place so I can go home and try to kill myself again. I gave her some bullshit answers to get out of being diagnosed with anything I didn't want to be diagnosed with. I was in the hospital from the hours of 4:00AM - 9:00AM. Five hours. Felt like years chained to damn that bed. I laid with the same dull expression, staring at the concrete wall in front of me. Not saying a word to anyone except for the one lady that came and talked to me. I don't know why, but I trusted her. I felt awful that I made her come out of the comfort of her home to come deal with me, but she still smiled and told me everything would be okay. It's not. And I fear it never will be. I still cut myself to this day because it gets rid of my anxiety. I'm still alone, and I still hate myself for my past actions. I'm not sure why I'm still alive; hell, I shouldn't be, but I got lucky. Needless to say, that was my after effect of trying to kill myself. It's still a struggle every single day, and I haven't really found my purpose for still being here, but something is pushing me to stay. I don't quite know what.