In September of 2012, we received a pounding on our door: the police checking up on me because my friend thought I might kill myself one night. I was taken to the hospital to get an evaluation and spent hours waiting to see what was going to happen. I admitted to having suicidal thoughts, and a doctor noticed I had marks on my wrist. At this, they decided they would transfer me to a behavioral health hospital.

My parents drove separately and met us there. We talked with people, signed some papers, and with everything happening so fast, I clearly did not know that I was signing myself into a mental health inpatient stay. I was required to stay there for a week. Once a week was up, I could choose to leave.

The unit that I was in included people who dealt with suicidal tendencies, self-injury, eating disorders, and drug abuse. I knew right away that I was not nearly as bad as the other people there. For some of them, it wasn’t their first time staying there.

Each day had a schedule which included various things such as eating times, music and art therapy, group discussions, movie time, and down time. Doesn’t sound half bad, does it? It wasn’t all terrible; I met some nice people and had a few laughs. However, they did not “cure” me of my self-harm actions and thoughts.

I know that they weren’t exactly meant to. It was more of a place where you could learn to cope with your depression, anxiety, and self-destructive thoughts, but I didn’t learn anything that I didn’t already know, and it was honestly a waste of my time and my parent’s money.

After my stay there, I had to go to an outpatient therapist once or twice a week. Honestly, I learned more from and was better helped by my therapist than the hospital. Come to think of it, everything that was said and taught in the hospital could have been said by a therapist in one or two visits. I know mental health hospitals do help some people, and I only stayed there for a week, but for me, personally, I didn’t gain anything from going.

I continued to self-harm the next few months, but with the help of a close friend, I finally stopped. It took no professional to make me stop. My therapist helped a great deal with my overall depression and anxiety, and I no longer need to see him, but it was my friend who came to my rescue in the end.