Losing My Mind

Well, waking up in a hospital without your phone, in blue paper scrubs, and surrounded by at least 30 people in a big room is not the right way to wake up. The first worry that morning was that I was stuck and I finally was were I was supposed to be. Well, I was in the part of the hospital that people made jokes about. You guessed it, I was in the pysch ward.

I got up and waddled to the guard who was watching all of us. “Can I have my phone?” I asked him. He was extremely cute. He was tall, dark blue eyes, and dark hair. He had a cute little gap between his teeth. And, I couldn’t believe I was standing in front of this cute boy in blue paper scrubs. Without a bra. And my hair was a mess. He shook his head. I asked if he could walk me outside to smoke a cigarette. Nope. I walked back to my bed and looked around. I was stuck with the crazy people. I was the crazy people.

A lot of people laid in their beds. Some, cried. Cried for oxygen because he couldn’t breath. One was calling me “pretty girl”. Another one was screaming at the staff. Another, walking around in a blanket and staring at everyone like we were the answer to life. If you aren’t crazy or think you are go ahead and spend 15 minutes here. You will believe you are crazy.

Being held under medical care was probably one of the most frustrating things of my life. I was brought into this huge room and asked for the doctor over and over again. I wanted to go home. I had to be at work by 3 and it was 8 a.m. I was going to sue the place. I was going to walk out. “Don’t act like a donkey, again.” One of the floor techs told me. Why was I being held? How did I get out? What were my legal rights? Where the fuck was my doctor? Why did I have to wait so fucking long to see him or her? Why were my nurses prescribing me xanax to calm down? Why am I in this fucking room with 30 other crazy patients?

Finally, after asking 10 times, the nurse came and asked me a million questions. Did I want to die? Did I do drugs? Why did I feel the need to drink? Why was I so violent last night? Why did I escape the hospital and go missing for over 5 hours? Why did I threaten to kill myself? Why was I here? Have I ever been diagnosed with any mental disorders? Was I abused?

I wanted to die because I was numb! I have no more fucking feelings anymore! I felt the need to drink because that is the one thing that can make me feel alive. I was violent because you crazy people strapped me down to a bed and I screamed until they finally knocked me out with drugs! I escaped because I wanted to drink more. I mean I was being held against my will anyways. I wanted to die, duh. I wanted to die. I have anxiety. Yes, in fact, sexually and physical. You’re point. Can I go home now?


My sister wanted to go shopping for cars. I was living in a 2 bedroom trailer with 9 people and 2 dogs. My fucking bedroom was in the living room, my bed was literally in the living, and I shared it with my sister. I was working a barely above minimum paying job, and I was stressed out beyond you’re imagination. It was August, and it was hot out, and I also lived in South Carolina. I was excited to go car shopping with my sister. I took at least 4 Xanaxs before we left the house. By the time we hit town, I was buying alcohol. Let’s remember it was only 1 p.m. I was fucked up. And, well, I didn’t care.

We went to car place after car place. I was starting to black out at this point. I was stumbling in places, and I was making a joke of myself. I always did that. I can still do that, but I think that it must be a magic power, and that is to look like such a joke. I remember they fixed my car’s air conditioning. I was sitting in the car. I starting crying to my sister.

I told her that I didn’t feel like life was worth it, anymore. There was no more purpose in life. Somedays, okay almost everyday, I thought of killing myself. I did not what to live anymore. I remember crying and I was fucked up in the middle of the day. I went on and on. While she was being her first car, I was complaining about my stupid life.  We waited for papers. I cried. And cried. I was so fucked up by those little pills and those couple of drinks. I always had to ruin everything. Everywhere I went, I brought tears and drama. My life was so hard, but maybe it was harder for the people who were watching my pathetic tragedy. I was the pathetic tragedy.

By the time I got home, my sister took my mom for a ride in her new car, and I was waiting on the steps for police to escort me to the hospital. My sister came home and told me the cops were coming because I was acting suicidal all day. I heard the sirens coming. I watched the cop come up to my car were I was laughing and making a fool out of myself.

My mom, my sister, my dad, my nieces, my friends, my neighbors, my aunt and uncle, and whoever else was there that I remember, watched the cop and the EMT’s threaten me. I either got in the ambulance with them or I got handcuffed and brought to the hospital. Either way, it was legal because the cop heard me say I wanted to die.

I decided to ride in the ambulance. I called the paramedic a bitch. I laughed in the cops face. I waved at him as he escorted the ride behind. It was all a joke. It was a joke as they all escorted me into the hospital and it was a joke when I had to want in the intake area to see if I was on drugs and to see if I had to stay.

I watched crazy people coming into the same area I was in. I seen a young man in a wheelchair shaking his head back and forth and screaming. A nurse drew my blood. I acted nice, and I let her do it. When she turned her back, I ran, and I ran like hell. Right past other patients, right past the staff and nurses, and right outside.

I ran out of the hospital, past the security, past the highway, past the long grassy area that went on for miles, I just kept on running. I didn’t even know where I was going. I didn’t even live in this area. All I know was that I had my credit card. I had enough to buy some beer and cigarettes. I would fill in the blanks from there.

It was probably about 6 p.m. when I ran away. I went to a small gas station and I got a couple beers. I took my beers to a bus station. And, I hung out there. I sang to myself. I sang hymns I knew from a child. I grew up singing and I grew up wanting to be a singer. When I drink, I sing. And I sang, as people came up to me and talked to me. The bus driver asked me who I was. I said I ran from the hospital. He laughed and drove away. He told me his daughter was my age, and he told me to be safe. I laughed as he drove off. I might be dead. If that is safe. I literally remember thinking that to myself. A man I met, told me his father was in the nursing home I worked at. He grabbed my butt. He stroked my back, and he tried to kiss me. He was probably in his early 50’s. I was to drunk to comprehend what was happening. He ran off, and I stayed there drunk.  I hope he realized what he was doing was fucked up beyond any comprehension.

Finally, I had enough. I crawled onto a busy road, and I laid there. I waited for someone to find me. Finally, a van came and slammed on their brakes when they seen that I was laying the middle of the road. “Honey? Where are you supposed to be? Why are you laying the middle of the street? You could have been hit!” They were freaking out. I was laughing. Before they came, I was closing my eyes and pretending I was dead.

They brought me to the gas station and immediately called 911. The worker there told me I could have anything there. The cops came. I tried to escape, but honestly I was too drunk. I got handcuffed for the first time in my life. And, I was put in the back of the police car.  I cried to them, and I begged them not to take me to that horrible hospital. I cried and pleaded. They didn’t really say much of anything. I just remember being hysterical on the whole ride back to the hospital. How did I end up in the same position that I was in hours before?

Turns out that there was an amber alert for my drunk ass. When I left the hospital, they notified my family, and sent it out. People where actually looking for me while I sang to myself in a stupid bus station. My sister, my mom, and my friends sent out messages to everyone I knew asking if they knew where I was. I was wandering the city and I was suicidal and crazy and they were probably worried.

They brought me back to that dumb intake area. And I fought, like hell. I was punching, hitting, kicking, spitting, screaming, and acting like they were trying to kill me. It took at least 6 people to strap me down into the bed. I screamed for what seemed like forever. Finally, she came in with a shot, and whatever was in that shot knocked me out. I told her she was a cunt as she stabbed me in the arm with whatever drug. She smiled, and told me it was okay. Bless her ability not to spit back in my face.

I woke the next morning with the entire staff making sure I wouldn’t do what I did the night before. I woke up in blue scrubs. I woke up around crazy people. I woke up sharing a bathroom with 30 or 40 other people. We had to have our blood pressure taken around the clock, I had to be supervised. I had to take on the phone in front of the staff. I couldn’t be left alone. I felt like a prisoner. I felt like this was the worst of the worst. I just was glad that people were actually there to supervise me.

I was only held for 2 nights or one and a half days. Which ever way you looked at it. Personally, it was 2 nights, 2 days, and I remember every second. Every smell. Every meal. Every nurse. The doctor. The guards. My small bed. I will never forget those 2 days and 2 nights. They diagnosed me with anxiety disorder. I already could have told you I had that.

When I went to sign out, my phone was missing. I have no idea where I dropped it. My mom, my dad, and my friend picked me up. I felt like I was getting out of prison.

It was not the end. It was the start of my self destruction.

Somehow, it made me want to die more.

It made my mom ask more questions.

It made me picture my death over and over again.

Somehow, I am still here. 2 hospitalizations and 4 overdoses, later.

I wish that I could get better.

The truth is everyday, I am searching for that reason. The first thing I picture is my little sister. The person who is my rock in more ways than one. I picture my dad. I picture my little brother. I picture my friends, and distant relatives. I keep going. I keep trying. I am literally living for others. Maybe, that is what life is about. Finally, realizing that you are here for more reasons than just yourself. That is why I am here. For more reasons than my own. I pray to God to forgive me, and somehow I feel a little bit more strength to get through another day.















The Day I Lost It.

I grew up in an extremely small town. Have you ever heard of northern Michigan? That is where I am from. Everyone knows everyone. I felt like I had to get away. And, I would find these amazing life. Everyone loved me. Everyone understood me. I could be myself. All I had to do was leave this stupid little northern town in the middle of nowhere. Then, I would have made real life experiences!

Listen, life don’t work that way. Stop watching those damn inspiring movies, and be realistic. Before you fuck your whole life up!

My parents moved away and left my sister and I in northern Michigan. It was the best time of my life. I could go wherever I wanted to go. I could see whoever the hell I wanted to see. I could drink until 5 am or I could sleep until 2 pm. Whatever I wanted to do, the world was in my hands. It was honestly the best time of my life. I had friends coming and going. I had bottles of vodka on hand. I was crawling up stairs. I was reading magazines in the bathtub, and dancing in the middle of the night while my sister was at work. I was so incredibly happy!

However, I had so much damn pressure to move. My friend was leaving the town and she wanted us to move to a bigger city. My family was in the south. I was so incredibly lost! Who was I suppose to be around? I did have an amazing job. I made great friends there, and I was actually making okay money for my age. I was able to support myself. I just did not know what to do. I felt so much damn pressure.

My sister and I decided to move across the god damn country. I had to say goodbye to so many people. I was moving to warmer climate, I was going to be tan all the time, I was going to be enjoying life and experiencing new things!

At this point, I was like fuck it I am going to do everything I can before I move down there!

In case I did not mention it before… my mother and I do not get along. She is controlling. She tells my business to everyone including the fact that I dated a man who was in a relationship. She thought that everyone should know. She also always had to know where I was at all times, and that included when I was 21 years old.

Anyways, I decided to enjoy life as much as possible before moving across the damn country. My friend, my sister, and my dogs, and me (of course), packed up the car and went to Lake Michigan. I took a bottle of vodka. I was blacking out on the way there. I met a cute guy at the gas station. I was too shy to of course get his number. I had fun at the lake that day. I ruined it.

I was stumbling everywhere. I pissed in a bush. I was screaming at cars next to us. I was hanging my head out the door. I was going back to the gas station, getting more alcohol, flirting (again), and leaving. I drank the whole way home. I burned my friend’s seats in her car. She was so pissed. I don’t really remember that part. We can leave that out and maybe talk about it later.

Anyways, I got home. I tried getting more alcohol. I took the car around the block. My little sister was calling me over and over again. I almost crashed into a damn curb. I got home, and she was so mad. She was yelling at me. I just remember laughing. I remember thinking everything was funny. Why not fuck my life up along with other people’s relationships with me? I don’t care if they love me or not. It doesn’t matter because I hate myself. I don’t even know how I got to this point.

When she left, I invited a boy over. I honestly can barely remember inviting him over. He came though. I throw all my clothes in my room. I acted cute. He had sex with me and took the one thing that I valued in myself. It was gone and I would never get it back. In all reality, I gave it away like it didn’t matter. He even tried to have sex with me on the picnic table. My neighbor’s were right inside. It was their table. I finally pushed him off and he was gone.

I acted so proud of it. Like I graduated high school or I won the damn lottery.

A few days later, I invited a new guy over. The same thing happened. I barely remember it the next morning. It doesn’t matter though, right? I am a women now. I had to be drunk for it to happen but at least someone had sex with me. At least, I would not be a 22 year old virgin. That is all that matters. It does not even matter that I got an STD that was, by the way, 100% curable. As long as I can say I am a woman.

I hated myself enough to throw myself to complete strangers who I never seen again after this. Why would I think just because I have sex that I am acceptable in life or something?

To me, it was damaging. The way I was raised. The way my mom tried to teach me to value myself. I just threw it away to men who just wanted to pound me from behind. They gave two shits other than the fact that their dick was getting wet. And, that is the honest truth. All I cared about was being socially acceptable. In the end though, I felt like shit. I still think about those nights I wish I could forget forever. I think it was just because I always wanted sex to mean something. I was raised that way. I mean I could have at least used a condom for both of them. I made mistakes, though.


Where It (Kinda) Begins

I always hear that everyone has a past. Everyone has a story to tell, and everyone has been through something that someone else has related to. But, what happens when you are only 23 years old and you have nobody to share these experiences with? What happens when you don’t know how to get better and you don’t know how to make everyone happy? I love so many people and I don’t want them to watch me kill myself anymore. I am slowly dying and I am only 23 years old. I choose every single morning and throughout my day to slowly kill myself. It is like I don’t know this person who makes these choices. I am taken over and someone else is living my life. I wake up to people literally hating me. I literally hate myself sometimes. I am not ready to die.

I use to live by the this, Fairytales are dead. I don’t even know what that means anymore. I made that up when I was 13. To tell you the truth me being alive right now is my fairytale.

The truth is I should have died a long time ago. I used to be excited for death. I was actually raised in church. I strongly believe in God. I always have and I know that he is always with me. But, I also know that God does not want me to take my own life. He has a path that he wants to live. There is a reason that I am alive! I still don’t know why I am alive. I think one day I will know, and when I know I want to say that Fairytales aren’t dead. I hope one day to look back on these words and to say that there was a reason that I lived.

My story begins the first time that I fell in love with alcohol. This is what slowly decided to take my life and destroy me. It took away over two years of my life. It filled the void of being rejected. It helped with my first breakup.

I remember that he left me without no explanation, and that always hurt me the most. He disappeared. After telling me that he wanted to spend his life with me, he wanted to have children with me, and he wanted me forever. I was only 20 years old when I met this man. And, he will never know the effects that he had on me. I can still remember me meeting him for the first time, and I never believed that he would like me. He did, though.

I am no longer going to try to make this sound romantic. What he did was wrong. He tried to make me have sex with him. I was a virgin at 20 years old, and he saw the chance to get in my pants. He said all the right words at all the right times. He was adorable, and I will never forget the way I felt about him. Falling in love for the first time is one of the best feelings in the world and it is something that you are never going to forget. But once it is gone, and it is really gone, you have to find a way to fill that void. And, I choose alcohol. We never had sex. Once he seen that I was real about that, he left, and I cried. And, I spent a long time blaming myself.

I was turning 21 when he left. I sent the last text message to him when I was turning 21. I spent weeks, months, and valuable time trying to forget him with alcohol. I would cry to my mother, to my friends, to strangers, to anyone about him! I would lay in my shower and cry until I couldn’t cry anymore. I would wake up thinking about him and fall asleep thinking about him. I would send him messages randomly. Hoping he would answer. Sometimes, he actually would. Sometimes, he would act the same. Other times, he just wanted nudes. I can never blame a person for my addiction. It was definitely the start of one, though. That was the point where I did not care anymore. I would drink in my closet. I would drink in the middle of the day. And, I would drink in the morning. I would be throwing up in the kitchen sink and crying in front of my mom.

Months went by, the alcohol followed. It followed me to the bars. Where I made out with men that are over their 40’s and police officers in the small town that I was from. I tried to fill his place with other guys. For some reason, that was the only thing that ever made me feel the slightest better.

I spent the New Year of 2015, in a bar. I met a guy. I made out with him in front of people. I fooled around with him in a car, and giggled about my virginity in his ear. The next morning, I had texts from him and I was confused. I don’t want anyone but the guy I first loved. It was so stupid for me to think like this.

It was so stupid for me to always trying to finding guys to feel the void of whatever I was missing. And you know what that was? That was the love I had for myself. It was completely something that did not exist. How sad for me to even say. And, I constantly think of that feeling that I do not have.

Where did it come from?

This hate for myself. Why am I so willing to throw myself at men who do not care for me in the slightest? Why do I care so much about relationships that lead me to nothing but damage? How did a hate become my love for alcohol?

Hi. My name is Courtney. I am 23 years old. I am an alcoholic. I am not ashamed of myself anymore. I am ready to heal. I am ready to discover my identity. I am ready to tell my story. I am ready to heal. I am ready to love myself.

I am scared to tell this story. I am ready, though. I am ready to be a better person.

If you are still here. Thank you for listening. God bless.