So a few hours after my last entry I attempted an overdose.  It was my first hospitalization in a year+.  I was drinking 40 oz's while typing and on an adventure to the bathroom I came across a few bottles of my mother's xanax.  I'm not sure how many I consumed, but let's just say I stopped counting at 30.  I thought I passed out at the computer desk, but there's photographic evidence... that I took... of the backyard, and the cats, and ... grass for some reason.  My mom found me on the bench in front of the computer all kinds of slumped over and covered in moss.  Aparently I told her I was going on a hike when she asked what I was doing.  She called the cops.  I woke up several days later all discombobulated on the involuntary unit of the nearest mental hospital.

I felt so defeated when I finally realized where the eff I was.  I hadn't been in one in sooo long and I was doing sooooo well.  I was embarassed.  I'm the crazy girl again...

My friend said it was the alcohol that made me depressed, but I know that it was the alcohol that gave me the courage I needed to swallow all those god damn pills and not give a fuck.  Granted it wasn't enough to kill me (but enough to knock me out for days), but it could have been. 

That was my third attempt and my third failure.  I guess it's shame on me, huh?  I feel like maybe there's a reason I've failed yet again.  Maybe I am really supposed to find a way to be happy, just like everyone else.  I guess I just don't see myself as a person that deserves the basic rights that everyone else does, though, and so I block out all the light when I've been consumed by darkness.