Make Me Wanna Die

I went to the counselor today about what my dad did, and going into foster care. She asked me if I ever thought about hurting myself. I admitted that yes, I had. I used to cut myself way back in 8th grade, but I’ll tell that story later. At this point, I haven’t cut in about two months. My father is an alcoholic and homophobic. I’m a lesbian. He doesn’t like that much, as you can assume. He gets really mean when he gets drunk and he makes fun of me for being gay, or for other random reasons. He has never hit me, but the emotional abuse is getting out of hand. I got to the hospital earlier today. I was scared to death. My dad was the one to take me because the counselor couldn’t. When I got in there they put me in room 210. The room was barren. There were white walls, and two beds. One good thing, though was the fact they each room had their own bathroom and shower. The sheer amount of white made the room extremely intimidating. It was about one at this time so they brought me lunch in my unit. They won’t let us call them rooms, only units. We don’t even have curtains, because you can hang yourself with a curtain. You have a long sheet of paperboard. I’m very bored now. There’s nothing to do. I get to read this stupid book “Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul”. I’m looking at the schedule and we have stuff to do every hour. Oh, they’re calling me for group, I’m going to go. I’ll write tomorrow.