Being right wasn't worth it. It still isn't worth it. And it's been years.

Simply being right, in my honest opinion, had lost me everything that I had built up from the beginning of my life; every last thing was gone and would probably never be returned to me. Being "right" had lost me all of my dignity and had made it so that every single person that had once respected me no longer did just as I had finally been able to say that, hey, those people respect me. I had just barely let my fingers graze the fact that they respected me and suddenly everything was ripped out of my grasp and had been taken so far away that I would never even see it again.

Not only had I lost my dignity and had everyone lost all respect for me as a human being, but I lost my home, my family, and everything else that mattered the most to me. No, it wasn't as though they had had any right to take it from me either. It wasn't as though they had had any sort of thoughts about how maybe I was right; that maybe what I had done had been the only way to get everything to stop. They couldn't believe that maybe they were the ones that were wrong. Oh, no. They had to be right because god forbid those assholes be wrong. God forbid that they have the fact that they were wrong shoved in their faces!

I'm not the only one that believes that what I did was the right thing to do. I know that there are other people out there, stuck in this stupid confinement or not, that believe that what I had done was the right thing to do; was the only thing that would ever solve anything. Plenty of people believe the same thing that I do; that it was the right thing to do in the sort of situation that had arisen. So effing what if there were more people who thought differently than we did?! Maybe they're the crazy ones instead of us; maybe they're the ones who deserve to be in this place being forced to take medication that doesn't work.

My question isn't, "How am I wrong?" No, that is the farthest thing from my mind because, no matter how many times that fat, pompous therapist of mine tells me that what I did was wrong, I'll still believe that I was right. The one thing that I still can't seem to understand, no matter how many times I ask the damn question, is why they have to jump to some effing conclusions that I'm the one who is wrong.

How many times am I going to have to ask you?! How many times am I going to have to scream that I want an answer to my question?! How many times will I have to break down into hysterics to get you to finally answer my question?! And how much longer are you going to avoid answering it, huh?! HOW MUCH LONGER DO I HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL I FINALLY GET MY ANSWER!

Just simply saying that I made a bad decision is not answering my question and I do not see how you could think that it's an answer. When you ask me a question, I don't tell you that I'm like that because I can be, do I? I give you the answers that you want. I give you in depth responses that make you happy and make that stupid little grin appear on your face that I just want to rip off! I give you answers to every single question that you ask me, and yet…you refuse to answer a single question that I have and you refuse to give me a real answer?

How is this fair? I waste hours of my day telling you how I feel and answering your stupid questions, but you won't waste a minute of yours giving me a real answer.

How do I feel? You want to know how I feel yet when I answer you don't seem to have a care in the world about how I feel. The look
on your face gives me the impression that you're only doing this because you have to and because you're getting paid. But what you want…what you really and truly want is to get out of that office before the forced grin of mine disappears and I'm sent into a blind rage. You want to go to lunch and you want to talk to your friends. I'm nothing more to you than just a patient and that is all that I will ever be to you.

Does it bother me? Oh, no. Of course it doesn't bother me. All that you are to me is my therapist. All that you are to me is my doctor. All that you are to me is the person that tells me that I need my dosages on my medications upped so that I can stay calmer and be more at ease. All that you are is the person who's been ruining the past four years of my life by constantly telling me that I am wrong.

How do I feel? Do you want to know how I feel? Do you truly want to know exactly what I'm feeling and exactly what is going through my head? Yes, you say? Yes, you really want to know? All right, I'll tell you.

I feel like I'm going to explode! I feel like I'm ready to rip your fucking face off to wipe that stupid grin of yours off so that I never have to see it again. I feel like ripping out my hair and screaming. I feel like throwing a fit and bursting into tears to show you how much this place is killing me. To show you how little more of this I can take before I completely snap and I really do rip your face off. To show you that I can't stand this anymore and that I hate crying every day and being unable to breath and being unable to stop my tears.

Do you want to know what I'm thinking now?

I'm thinking that I want to cry and that I want to rip my hair out to keep from ripping that face off. I'm thinking that I'm glad that I never took any of the medication that you gave me! I'm glad that I never let your sorry ass dictate my life! I think that I hate you more than anything. I think that I hate you more than I hate myself. I think that I want to just kill you; strangle you; do anything to you just as long as I can wipe that stupid smile of yours off of your face.

But that smile will never be wiped off of your face. It will always be there and, no matter how many times I say this to you, you'll never understand what I'm saying. You'll never hear the words that I'm saying. It's not because you don't have ears, because you do, but it's because you're not real.

It's because you're just a teddy bear that's been sitting in my room for all of these years. You're just a doll that will never be able to respond to what I have to say and I've finally come to realize that I was wrong and that I have a reason to be here. I mean…I did something wrong and stupid and that makes no sense and I earned myself my life's sentence in this hospital where the nurses check in on us every five minutes of the day to make sure that we're not killing ourselves and to make sure that we're taking our medication.

And all of this time…I've been taking that medication and I've been getting worse and worse because my fucking "therapist" is a stupid doll. And the only reason that this doll is what I consider my therapist is because I refuse to go to my real one because that son of a bitch keeps dictating my life and keeps telling me what I did wrong. He keeps telling me that I have to get better…and in order to get better…I need to admit that I was wrong.

But he has this stupid rule that I can't just admit that I was wrong and be done with it. He says that I have to see exactly how I was wrong and then I have to explain how I was wrong. Only then will I be able to get out of those stupid meetings with him for good and be able to actually step away from all of the drugs that they have me on. Of course, I don't completely see what I did wrong.

Well, I do…but at the same time…I just don't see the error in my ways, so it doesn't make sense to me. It doesn't make sense that just because the pain was unbearable and that I acted upon it that I end up here. In this hospital where the nurses check in on you every five minutes. Where the nurses are constantly trying to make you feel at home.

Why don't they understand it though?! We can't feel at home if our family completely abandoned us! We can't feel at home if we're stuck in a place that constantly smells of puke and blood when our actual home was absolutely nothing like this place. I don't know if maybe it's just me, but my house wasn't this big. My house didn't have halls and halls of rooms that never seemed to come to an end.

My house wasn't constantly getting new visitors that were being forced to stay in their assigned room until either they completely recovered from their "disease" or until people trusted them to be out in the real world again. We didn't put bars on our windows and we didn't only have plastic silverware so that we made sure that some of those special crazies didn't decide to try and stab themselves during our meal times. But there's something funny about how you all try so hard to keep us from harming ourselves with the silverware when there are so many other places and so many other ways to do it.

You don't even check my wrists anymore. The last time that anyone checked my wrists was when you took the stitches out from the incident that got my ass placed in this horrid smelling dump. You think that just because I'm wearing short sleeves again that there is nothing new on my wrists because someone who wears short sleeves can't hide the cuts and gashes on their wrists with anything. You don't even realize that I suddenly started to wear bracelets and ponytails all up and down my arms, do you?

I find it kind of funny that the motto of this place is something along the lines of how you care about your patients and how you always make sure that we're all right and not doing something stupid with ourselves. Yet. YET. Yet I still manage to get away with every last thing that I do to myself. Why is that?

Is it because when I'm supposedly in my actual therapist's office you have no reason to worry about what I'm doing? Just because you lead me there doesn't mean that I'm actually walking into the room to sit with that bastard. He doesn't even notice that I don't ever show up in his office at the allotted time because he's too busy having sex with his previous patient to care.

I can always hear their moans and the shuffling of the desk as it moves back and forth across the floor in rhythm to his slamming into her. I can hear her screams of how she wants it harder and how she's about to explode. But I just sit there and block it out like everyone else around because they don't want to have to be the ones to tell him that they're being too loud. And they only keep their mouths shut because they'll get fired.

But their choices don't bother me because they're right and I'm wrong.

And I'm only wrong because I tried to take away the pain that I was feeling by giving myself even more pain to deal with; by carving a nice chunk of skin out of my wrist and by trying to dig through the rest of the skin to find my veins to make sure that they were there.

…And they were there.