Hello and welcome to 'help me live.' I want to warn you upfront that this book dives deep into difficult topics… •Suicide •Self-harm •Depression •Anxiety •Psychiatric hospitals •Eating disorders •Sexual assault/abuse •Sexual themes •Homophobia •Homophobic slurs
(If you’ve read earlier versions of this book, I recommend rereading them. I’ve edited and revised extensively, and things have changed. I don’t want you to be confused.)
I also want to make clear that I’ve never been in a psychiatric hospital myself. This entire story is written based on what I’ve heard, researched, and read.
Please don’t take offense to anything I write here. It’s just fiction. I *have* personally struggled with depression, anxiety, self-harm, and bipolar disorder. I take these topics seriously. If you have even a small feeling that reading this will be triggering for you, please don’t read it.
Here are some helplines you can use if you need them. I’ve tried to include as many as possible, but if you need one for a place I haven’t listed, just ask, and I’ll find it for you.
Argentina : 54-0223-493-0430 Australia : 01-713-3374 Barbados : 429-9999 Belgium : 106 Botswana : 3911270 Brazil : 21-233-9191 Canada : 519-416-486-2242 > Alberta : 1-888-787-2880 > BC : 1-866-872-0113 > Quebec : 5-14-723-4000 China : 852-238-20000 Costa Rica : 5-06-253-5439 Cyprus : 357-77-77-72-67 Denmark : 70-201-201 France : 01-45-39-4000 Italy : 06-705-4444 Mexico : 5-25-510-2550 Netherlands : 0900-0767 New Zealand : 4-473-973 Norway : 47-815-33-300 Poland : 52-70-000 Spain : 91-459-00-50
National sexual assault hotline: 800-656-4673 (USA only)
suicide: 1-800-784-8433 / 1-800-784-2433 / 1-800-273-8255
eating disorder : 1-847-831-3438
rape/sexual assault: 1-800-656-4673
Take care of yourselves, my loves.
I won't put a trigger warning at the beginning of each chapter because honestly, they apply to almost every chapter. This is your general warning.
I made a trailer for this book. It’s got trigger warnings too.
https://youtu.be/0zWOc1DqlxI
If you click on that channel and go to the playlists, I’ve made a playlist for this book, and I also put the songs mentioned at the beginning of each chapter there.
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They think we're stupid.
But I can see past the lack of doors.
They think impact-resistant windows, tamper-proof locks, one-inch charging cables, rubber edging on everything sharp, no curtains, and breathable, choke-free bedding will stop us from harming ourselves. What they don’t realize is we can harm ourselves without physically *doing* it.
I’m well aware this isn’t a ‘psychiatric hospital.’ It’s a goddamn nut house. I don’t even *need* to be here.
I’m not seeing things or hearing voices. I can process everything perfectly. I’m just sad and don’t want to live sometimes.
They sent me here after I tried to suffocate myself. I’m fed up, and I want to leave. This isn’t helping. I’m being forced to eat, talk about my feelings, and face my ‘problems.’ It’s not helping; it’s making everything worse. I’m stuck in a small hospital room, and everywhere I look reminds me that I’m not ‘normal.’
The only normal part of my day is media hour. We’re allowed one hour every day to watch TV and use our phones. It’s supervised, of course.
I usually spend that hour stalking Billie Eilish.
Let me tell you, it’s wild that I used to sing with her in choir. We were actually good friends for about two years after I dropped out. She was sweet and hilarious. She had this knack for instantly sensing when something was off. She was the first person to approach you, yet she was still somehow intimidating. She wasn’t mean or rude, just…the alpha. Everyone knew it.
Sometimes I wonder where I’d be if I hadn’t dropped out of choir. If my insecurities and mental illness hadn’t taken over my life. Would I be the famous one? Would I still be her friend? Her best friend?
What if.
‘What ifs’ swirl in my head like a tornado all day, every minute, every second.
What if I hadn’t dated that asshole?
What if my parents treated me differently?
What if I’d kept eating?
What if my attempt had actually worked?
Who would come to my funeral?
Would there even *be* a funeral?
Would Billie be there?
My head is always spinning. I’m so broken. Usually, people have one problem. I have them all.
My anxiety kept me home, inducing depression. Depression made me look in the mirror, and anxiety told me I wasn’t pretty enough. They teamed up and yelled at me to stop eating. I stopped eating and felt numb. The numbness told me to cut. The cuts on my arms told me I wasn’t good enough. It became a vicious cycle.
I try to silence the violently screaming thoughts as I watch a recent interview of Billie. It’s her third year doing the Vanity Fair interview, and she looks so much happier than she ever has before. She says “patience” is all it takes. Fuck off, Billie. I’ve been ‘patient’ for years, and now I’m a patient in a fucking nut house. Though I’m bitter, I’m genuinely happy for her.
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a/n: This is a short chapter to start, but I promise they’ll usually be longer.