I wasn't a stranger to the eighth floor at AnMed Hospital in South Carolina. The drab decor, the smells, the nurses; none of it had changed since I had been here three years ago. This time, I was a veteran. I had packed a suitcase, making sure that I had my journal, a ball-point plastic pen and my name on every item that would be confiscated and locked up. I had a list of my friends' phone numbers, knowing that I would call them and beg them to come visit me. They were my family; my support system. I didn't have to write his number down though. I had it committed to memory. How could I not, with the obsessive amount of texts I sent him everyday?

Yesterday was my 23rd birthday. I received so many happy birthday wishes from everyone from my family in Maine, to people I had friended on Facebook just because we took a class together two semesters ago. I didn't get one from him though. His was the only one that would have mattered. Again I wasn't completely surprised. He wanted time apart; distance; room to breathe. For some reason I had been unable to give him these things, even though I desperately tried to. He was trying to abandon me and push me away. I wasn't going to let him. I loved him. He was my best friend. I was not going to lose another best friend.

The familiar feelings of mania and nervousness overwhelmed me as I rode the elevator up to the eighth floor. I had been in the emergency room for at least four hours with the college counselor. At the time she was all I had, and school policy dictated that she remain by my side. I looked down at my arms as we ascended. They were red and swollen from the exacto knife I had taken to them earlier that day. In some surreal way they looked beautiful, and it scared me. The elevator stopped and we buzzed the nurses' desk. We said our goodbyes as she went back to the elevator. I walked through the double doors and up to the desk, hearing the familiar click-click of the doors behind me. This was it. I was here again. And damn it, this time better be the last!

Thus began the invasion of my very essence; both physically and mentally. I stripped down to nothing and donned the very fashionable hospital gown. I felt like I was checking into drug rehab as I watched the nurse search my belongings with gloved hands. She confiscated things such as my shampoo (apparently it had alcohol in it), my hair elastics and my underwire bras. Anything that could be used to harm myself was fair game to her scrutiny. She then probed me with questions. What year is it? What city are we in? Who's the president of the United States? And then came the part I hated the most - I was to tell my life story. Again. I had been in here not even a week ago. Do they not keep a record of what people say during these interrogations? After the grilling, she handed me the plastic cup for the urine test. I had smoked pot two nights ago. I'm fucked, i thought.

After my inspection I was allowed to put on my pj's. It was time for me to get my medication so I could go to bed. All I wanted to do was sleep. But I had to stay awake and wait for the pharmacy downstairs to send it up, even though I had brought my own. The head nurse was unsympathetic to my plight and wasn't going to put up with any attitude I may have. I could tell she hated her job, and was forced to work this floor, which was her least favorite. She herself had her shit together. She had probably slept through all their psychology classes. This is what I hated about all the third shift nurses. Finally my meds were sent up, and I was able to go to bed. As I walked away from the nurses' station, she yelled after me, "You tested positive for marijuana by the way. You really shouldn't do that crap." So much for confidentiality.

I climbed into bed. I didn't even bother turning down the covers. It was 3am and I just didn't care anymore. I tossed and turned all night, waking up frequently. Each time I awoke I would walk to the reinforced window. From my room one could see the blinking lights on the radio tower that was on my college campus. All I could do was picture him sound asleep in his bed, not having to worry about me and my freakish emotions. He finally had the peace he wanted. I was locked up from the outside world. It was happening again. I was losing yet another close friend because I was fucked up. I was crazy. An emotional freak. There was no hope for me to change. Little did I know that there was indeed help out there for me. And this time, I would find it.