"Being helped is not being given a pill a day-hell, four pills a day. Being helped is finding deep-rooted issues and learning how to cope with them. If pills were the answer, I would still have a stash of xanax bars in my side-table drawer. Do not send me away by making my brain foggy. I am here, and would like to be in the first time in a long time. Show me care by talking to me, or you will never know how to help. Without that, how am I supposed that anyone will help me at all? Fuck, dude, the crazy people around me help me more than the people with a college degree who claim to know best. It is hard to believe that it is day two, and it is even harder to believe that it is only temporary.
I keep looking out of the window to view the courtyard. I have never had a stronger urge to smell the flowers.
Stop asking me how I feel. I want to be in this life, but this is not how I want this life to be.
It is funny, being in a place of care that makes you realize that not everyone who says that they care, care. The fucking irony. The person who played a major role in causing this probably gave more of a shit about me."