What a fucking week this has been. I had a meltdown today. I've been crying or on the verge of crying almost all day.

This kind of started this weekend, after my cousin Marissa's bridal shower. We celebrated my aunt's birthday later that night at the bar, and you know, I got drunk. That's not the bad part.

What was wrong this time is that I talked myself into doing something I always said I would never do. Something not okay. Something I regret with every ounce of my being.

And the worst part is, I wasn't even completely wasted when I talked myself into doing this. I had gotten plastered, then I drank a lot of water, and I was down to tipsy-buzzed when I started talking to my cousin's husband.

No, I didn't sleep with him or anything like that. I mean, there was some begging on my part, but it wasn't anything that my cousin wouldn't be okay with. In fact, he even went and asked her and she said yes. So not only was she aware, but she was okay. (Because it wasn't sexual in the slightest. It was something else entirely.)

But for a few minutes after, I was okay with what I did. But then it hit me, and as I sat at the bar, I was on the verge of crying. I felt horrible. Matt kept asking if I was okay, and I would just shake my head. I think he went and grabbed my aunt and told him I needed to go home, because (if I remember correctly), she came and told me we were going home. I don't know. Matt and Liz took care of me.

As we were getting ready to go, Marty was arguing with Liz about whether or not she could drive, and I started to panic. I didn't want to get in a car with a drunk driver. So I ran back into the bar (I had to grab my bag anyways), and I told Matt that I didn't know what to do. (I didn't go to Lindsay because I didn't want to freak her out about her mother driving or anything. And because at that point, I had been dealing with Matt, and I wasn't sure if Lindsay was a hundred percent in the loop.) But Matt told me that Liz would never put my life at risk, and I believed that.

But at that point, I was too drunk to be able to tell if Liz was drunk or not. So, I don't know. We eventually got home. The drive seemed to take forever, but I don't think it did.

Point is, I just don't think I want to drink with Liz and them anymore. I don't want to drink at all really anymore. Maybe a glass of wine or a wine cooler, but I don't want to be drunk anymore. I know it was just one mistake, and it's not the end of the world, but it scared me. And it's what has really caused me to be in this verge-of-breakdown state all week.

All day Sunday I just moped. I didn't want to do anything. When I got back to the dorm Sunday night, I went right to bed. I didn't go to my music class, but I managed to get myself to my philosophy one. Then I went to Connecticut. That lightened my mood a bit, because I was hoping I could see Hector. But of course not. But, considering the state I was in, it was probably for the better. Tuesday, I came back to campus and I slept. I was going to get up and do some work, but I just couldn't. I just felt sick. Lingering icky taste in my mouth, lack of energy, exhaustion. I didn't really do anything yesterday. I've hardly eaten since Saturday night. I just haven't had an appetite. Really, my eating habits have been messed up for a couple weeks now. I've only eaten normally a handful of days within the past two or three weeks, I think?

Angela thinks it's the stress making me sick. I told her about Saturday night. She doesn't think it was a mistake. Of course she wouldn't. I knew it would do no good to tell her. I need to talk to someone who doesn't have a biased opinion. Someone who sees it from my point of view. But I can't tell my friends. God, I have no idea what they'll think. They'll be so disappointed. But I'm disappointed enough for all three of them combined, so what's the use in telling them?

Maybe to have someone to talk to? If I had talked about it with someone more rational than my roommate, maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't have had a breakdown today.

But I didn't, so I broke down. I had an appointment with Health Services on campus today, and I cried in front of her. I cried before that, as I was getting ready, thinking of what I would tell her. I knew I had to talk to her. Talking to my friends could have helped, but there was more than just Saturday that I needed help with. And my friends can't help with that. I didn't tell the doctor about Saturday, but I told her how I have been neglecting my school work, and how I just don't know what to do anymore and how I'm stuck.

She got me an "emergency" appointment with the counseling center, and I talked with a nice therapist named Joe. And you know what? It kind of helped. I cried a lot talking to him too, but he assured me, like the doctor, that I would be okay. I've gotten it this far, I'll get through this. And where most therapists nod as if they understand, Joe actually nodded and was able to reword things I said in a way that showed he truly understood. So I'm going to meet with him again, because I really liked him. He seemed like he really knew what was going on. He gets it. And I typically don't like talking to guys, but I think he might actually be able to help. I wish it were next Friday already so that I can see him again. That's the thing I hate about therapy. In the moment when I'm saddest is when I need help the most. But by the time therapy rolls around, I'm temporarily over it and nothing productive happens during therapy. I wish I could just talk to him right now for hours. I feel like that would be most helpful.

You know what is weird, though? I've never been taken care of like this. And I think that's part of the reason why I'm just falling apart so much. I've never had a doctor who cares so personally about their patients. I don't know why that's making me cry.

Maybe because I finally have a support net of people who can actually help me? I mean, I've always had my friends and parents. But they're not medical professionals, so while they're always there for me, there's little they can actually do. But the doctor cares, and she's helping me. I actually felt comfortable enough with her to tell her. And she immediately helped me. God, she is the most amazing doctor on this planet. And even Joe used the term "team". I've never had a team to help me.

I've been dealing with this alone for so long, thinking that I could handle it. I really did. I thought that depression was something I was comfortable with, something that I liked. But after this weekend, I realized living with it was doing damage. And today, I see that there is a way to fix it.

I almost actually believe that everything will be okay. It's not going to be easy, but it will happen. And for once, I have people to help me.

I've had breakdowns before, but usually I just dealt with them on my own. I've never sought medical help. It was scary. I thought I would be admitted to a hospital. I almost wish I was, because there I could hide until I was better. I'm tired of dealing with life right now. In a hospital, I can not deal with life until I was ready. But being admitted isn't something you can hide. You can go to therapy without having to announce it to the world. You can be sad and mask it. But being taken away and hospitalized, you can't exactly hide that. And I don't want my family to know how unstable I am. Aunt Nora was the crazy one who spent time in Binghamton. But really, she wasn't crazy. She was just bipolar. That's not crazy, that's sickness. I can really connect with her. Mental illnesses aren't easy to deal with. But I don't want to be the new crazy one in the family. I think that's what I'm most afraid of. I don't want people in my family to look at me differently. I don't know if anyone knows how fucked up I am, but if they don't know, they don't need to.