I'm going back to college this month (unfortunately I will have to live with my parents this time, unless I can somehow make rent money or get lucky.) I took last summer and the winter semester off after having the worst year of my life as a freshman. Only three of my credits will transfer from the somewhat reputable college I was at to the community college I will be attending. But, I can handle that, as I will be starting fresh, with no GPA, and a chance to be what I can be. My father agreed to pay for this semester. But he e-mailed my maternal grandfather to tell him that the payment would be made, because my father thought I might steal money if the bill was paid twice. My mother told me this on the phone, but when I asked her how my dad got his e-mail and why he sent the e-mail (I didn't know at that point,) my mom burst into a walling scream and hung up. The following is what came to my mind again today, due to the above. For those of you who don't know: last year, when I was a freshman, my mother and grandfather sent checks to the college for the same tuition bill, so I received a check for the exceeding amount in my name. The same thing happened with another bill, when my father and grandfather sent overriding checks. I spent all of the money, and more, on myself and a friend. I am still in almost $300 of debt at a bank near the college. I took a flight to Vegas, met a friend there, went to a show, went on all the rides on the strip, and did things that I regret even more. Why did I do these horrible things? It wasn't out of despair for my family. It seems like it was almost out of carelessness, because I didn't feel guilty at the time. I felt free to do anything. There were times during the year in which I did fine academically, worked out regularly with a friend, and played basketball. But there was more. I started an argument back at home, during Thanksgiving break, which got me beaten up so badly by my then best friend, who I was in Vegas with, that my entire face swelled up and I had post-concussion problems for a month, barely able to get out of the bed, struggling to eat, or even just turn in my bed. But I didn't want to go to the hospital. When I finally did, I was given pain pills which helped me sleep. But it had already been a month of not being able to go to classes. I tried getting help at the health center, but the antidepressants I was given only made me feel worse, and the therapy I got was limited due to the large student population. It got so bad that I slept all day, missing all of my classes except Psychology, ironically enough, because it was my only evening course. For April and May, the last two months of classes, I left my dorm at night, hoping to see nobody at all, just walking around the downtown area. I went camping with the guy living in the dorm room next to me, his girlfriend, and some of his friends. Some high school kid he knew who came with us molested me. I was thinking about killing myself constantly. Every thought was about death. Last summer, I went to a therapist, who, after about nine sessions, decided I needed more help than she alone could give me and she sent me to an outpatient center. That was in early September. Just as soon as I entered the outpatient program, I was sent to a psych ward, because I had walked towards a highway with the intent on getting hit, but I didn't want someone to have to deal with the pain of hitting me, so I somehow ended up back at my dad's place, cutting myself for the first time so I could ease the edgy feeling I was having and get control of myself. I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and borderline personality disorder. A week and a half later, I was back at the group/individual therapy outpatient center, and I've been there ever since (4 days a week.) Everyone there thinks I've come a long way. I used to be afraid to speak because I didn't want to be looked down upon. Lately, I have been a meaningful person in the group, although I am going to stop going and start my college courses. I understand I was mentally ill, and I know I did not mean to cause harm to my family. But I feel like my family is spitting on me and then stepping back, waiting for me to screw someone over. And that's the last thing I want to do. If my family doesn't trust me, they can't embrace me. I would like to join some support groups, or make some good friends, or volunteer. I know none of that can make up for having a trusting family, but it's still something. And having something and being alive is always a good thing, right?