Demi Matthews, here. I have been given this journal to write in during my stay in the Yale New Haven psychiatric ward, or, as they call it the "behavioral health unit." Let me explain just a little bit of how I got here. I've been struggling with major depressive disorder for five years. It's been a long battle. As a freshman, my uncle passed away from luegerics disease. I had been close to him because my parents had divorced when I was seven, and my dad had moved to another state. When my uncle finally passed, I could hardly function. I nearly failed the year because I was so depressed I could hardly get out of bed. I've always been a straight A student, but my grades dropped to D's and F's. I lost interest in life. My friends would invite me to go places and I'd just tell them I was busy or had something else to do, when really I was in the bathroom with my head in my hands, so overwhelmed that it was physically painful. After three anti-depressants and a year of counseling, I was stabilized. But then I relapsed. I was no longer safe to be on my own. And that's why I'm here.

   So, this is day one. Today has been a lot of waiting. First we went to the emergency room, and it must have took at least four hours from the time I went in to the time I got up here to the unit. They asked a lot of questions to see if I would meet the criteria to be hospitalized, did some blood work, that kind of stuff.

"Are you willing to be admitted?" They asked me.

"Yes," I replied.
"That is very strong of you," the doctor told me.

Then there was more waiting. Finally, they had me change into a hospital gown. Then they told me I'd have to part with my phone. I wanted to cry. My phone was my connection to the outside world. Reluctantly, I handed it over. They scanned me for any metal objects and a security guard came to escort me upstairs.

"This your first time?" She asked.

I nodded. I crossed my arms, not just because of the cold but because I was scared. I'd never been in the pysch ward before. Were there really padded walls? Would they lock me in a room alone? Would they let me talk to my friends? Would they use a straight-jacket on me? The questions clouded my mind.

The security guard led me to a pair of locked doors. She put in a code and I entered. I looked around. I could see other teens coming and going, making themselves at home. One sat on the couch watching television. Another was talking on the phone. A girl was talking to a nurse and laughing.

  The unit was layed out more like a home than anything. Couches and chairs sat in a circle around a television. A table was to the right, and next to it a counter with a cage on it. I looked into the cage and saw a few chrysalises. Butterflies, I thought to myself, and smiled.

After lunch, it was time for group therapy. There were about five other kids, and several nurses and therapists. "We have a new girl with us today," the head therapist announced.

I blushed.

"Demi, would you like to introduce yourself?"

"Hi-I'm Demi," I said shyly. "I am a sophomore in highschool and I play junior varsity soccer."

One of the other girls gave me a friendly smile, "Me, too!"

"Do you want to tell us a little bit about why your here?" a nurse asked me.

I looked down at my hands.
"I felt I couldn't trust myself anymore," I said quietly, "to keep myself safe."

A few of the other kids nodded sympathetically.
"So I checked myself in.
One of the boys raised his eyebrows. "You're not here on Chapter 54?"
"What's that?"
"When you're here involuntarily."
I shook my head.
"Wow," he exclaimed. "I wish I would have had the guts to do that."
"It wasn't an easy decision," I added quickly. "But there is something in me deep down inside that is fighting for life, and that part of me fought the hopelessness inside and won. I knew I couldn't do this to the people who love me. I just knew this was the right thing to do."
The kids nodded politely.

"Does someone want to explain why we raise butterflies here?" the therapist suggested.
"I will!" A girl with blue highlights volunteered.

"Butterflies are symbols of recovery. They often symbolize that someone is clean of self-harm, or that someone is a survivor of sexual abuse. But they really can be a symbol for anyone who has depression. A butterfly goes through a dark period where they don't know if they can ever be the same again. It takes a lot of time, but in the end they gain their wings, they gain their freedom, and this beautiful creature is created out of a situation that seemed slimy and messy," her eyes shone as she spoke.

"Each night before we go to bed, we check on the butterflies and journal how the butterfly's stage relates to the stage in our recovery," a boy finished.

"Since Demi is new, she can go first," the therapist invited.

I went over to the cage and took a long, hard look at the vibrant green chrysalis, an then at the small, white eggs sitting on one of the leaves. I decided to relate to the eggs, since a chrysalis is almost hatched, and I'm not at that stage in recovery yet. I've made this journey before, but now I'm here again. I'm starting out all over. And one thing that stood out was how tiny and fragile those eggs were, so dependent on the conditions around them in order to survive. I am like that. I'm so fragile, and I can't do this alone. I guess that's the first step, recognizing you can't do it alone.