Dear Francesca,

Once upon a time...no, wrong story. All of the stories seem wrong. But they are mine.

I crashed hard since I last wrote to you. I spiralled down, down quickly, with a foreboding feeling building up until I felt compelled to harm myself or swallow pills. I slammed the car door to the night air and drove home to my parents, because I could feel more safe there and they could keep me from hurting myself.

The next day I checked into a hospital at the suggestion of my doctor. Each town I have lived in (except my hometown) I have been in the hospital. Even though that's only three times, it feels like more. I left the next day when the urge to hurt myself subsided.

The following week (last week) was horrible. I felt as if I didn't deserve to live, didn't deserve to eat, was a terrible person, etc. All hope was gone, like a dead leaf carried away by a strong wind.

At the beginning of last week, my doctor made some changes in my medications. The increase in the depakote must have worked, for finally I feel better. I feel like the fever has broken.

And they lived happily ever after...definately not the right ending, but a bit scarred and somewhat OK, hoping that the change in mood sticks around.

Yours,
Hannah Iona