It was a Monday morning in mid-February, and the first thing ringing in my ears was my alarm clock. 6:15 am, just like any other school morning. Except this morning was more awful than the other ones. I felt sad and I felt like sitting under my blanket all day. I didn't see the point in making a big deal out of one day; I already had a 3.9 GPA so I would say junior year was going pretty well (well, aside from the fact that I was almost done with high school and hadn't interacted with anyone but teachers and staff). I knew I had some form of depression and anxiety and sure, my eating habits were off, but of course self-diagnosis' are never 100% accurate.

Soon, I heard my mother knocking on the door, probably wondering why I was still in bed. Grumbling and reaching for my phone, I checked the time to see 6:30. Right. I never slept through an alarm, ever. One of the downsides of being an only child was that way too much attention could be shed on you, especially in moments where you didn't need it (aside from the fact that I wanted a younger sibling but never got that wish). Instead of telling her I was awake, I opted to groan, and pull the blanket over my head some more. I suppose she took it as a sign that I was still asleep, so she walked in.

"Annabeth, you need to—" her sentence was cut short by a sharp intake of breath.

Confused, I pulled the blanket off of myself and followed her line of vision, and immediately regretted staying in bed this morning. It was one of my restless nights, and not only did my sleeves roll up, but so did the hem of my shirt and my pants legs. What my mother has seen was cuts on my wrist, but now that the blanket was off, she could see them everywhere. There were old, new, deep, surface scratches, and some horrendous gashes that healed into a giant lump of a line. Both of us had a stunned expression on our faces and my eyes were downcast.

Taking a shaky breath, my mother walked out of the room and returned no more than two minutes later with my father. The look of confusion melted off of his face as he too took in my appearance. He walked up to the bed and his fingers ghosted over the cuts on my legs.

"Annabeth…why?" My father was whispering, eyes still on the cuts. What could I say? I just opted to stay silent, because there was really nothing for me to use to answer that question. So stupid; stupid, stupid, stupid Annabeth.

My mom finally re-opened her mouth, but as she talked, I wish she had stayed silent. "Annabeth, we have to go to the hospital." Each word drawled out slowly and carefully.

"No," I pathetically tried to beg. But when I saw my parents shake their head at the same time, I knew there was no turning back or changing their minds.

"Okay," I agreed weakly, standing to go get ready. My mother sat right out of the bathroom until I came out (go figure) and then I was ushered into the car. The ride to the hospital was solemn and quiet, leaving me to my own anxiety-induced haze.

We finally pulled up to the hospital and my anxiety was once again sent over the moon. But I knew I was already killing my parents by doing this to myself, and by extension, doing it to them as well. I had to put on some sort of face to say yes, I could do this, yes I will accept your help. Taking a shaky breath, I took the hand my father offered to me and climbed out of the car and into the emergency room. As we walked through the automatic doors, the charge nurse at the front desk smiled and asked what brought us here today. My mother explained to him how she had found some self-injurious cuts on my body and she thought I should be looked at. The nurse nodded, scribbled some things down, and then asked us to sit in the waiting area for the time being. The last time I had been here was when I was maybe thirteen and had fractured my ankle.

In about ten minutes, I heard 'Annabeth Chase' called from another nurse and I knew the moments I dreaded finally came. I sat into a chair, where my blood pressure, oxygen rate, and temperature were taken. I was eyeing the scale in the corner, and I knew it would only be a matter of time before I heard—

"Okay hun can you just take off your shoes and step on this scale for me please?" I heard the nurse say. Only because I didn't want to be difficult, I stepped on, holding my breath until the number showed up.

41.7 kilograms. Roughly 92 pounds. Seeing as I was seventeen years old at a height of five-foot-five, I had a BMI of less than 16.

Cue sharp breath from the nurse and my parents, looking at the number in utter disbelief. I sighed; that number didn't seem small to me. Call me crazy, but my goal weight was zero. I still seemed to be about 92 pounds away from it. The nurse led us to a room and before my parents could step in they were asked to wait in the hall for about 5 minutes while I changed into a hospital gown.

The gown was given to me, and while I was taking off the clothes, I could see the nurse's eyebrows go further and further up. Wonderful. Once I was down to a bra and underwear, I was handed the gown and the nurse started to ask questions. I guess because she wanted to see things from my point of view.

Where did I cut? My arms, wrists, stomach, thighs, and calves.

When did I start? Since I was maybe fourteen or fifteen? I really can't remember.

Could I see or hear things no one else could? No, thank God.

Did I think I was depressed? Well by dictionary definition and in the world of psychology, hell yes. I'm a walking piece of shit.

Was I thinking about ending my life? Oh yes, at some point. I even had a detailed plan. It included the note, the pills, the knife, and even the date and time. I even knew how I would want my body discovered and taken to the morgue.

Okay, thank you love, our psychiatrist should be here shortly.

My parents were let back in the room and an EKG was done (as standard medical procedure). I knew my parents wanted to ask more questions but I didn't feel like crying today so I just turned over on the bed and made myself fall asleep with my mother stroking my hair.

Approximately two hours later, I was awakened by hushed voices. Turning over, I saw a man that looked like the doctor talking to my parents. As soon as my mother noticed that I was awake, she leapt over and hugged me; the type of hug that needed no words.

I looked at the name tag of the doctor and it indeed confirm that he was the psychiatrist, and his name was Dr. William Solace.

"Hi Annabeth," he began. "So I've been talking to your parents for a bit and I heard a little bit of their side of the story. I was wondering if you and I could chat so that I could hear things more from your side of the story." That wasn't really a request or question, so of course I told him yes. My parents walked out of the room, but only after another hug from my mother and a kiss on the forehead from my father.

Most of the questions were the same as the nurse, although some were more specific than the nurse's. After a bit, he explained types of treatment with me. I could either go to an inpatient facility, where I would be on lockdown for my own safety, and it would be for a few weeks. Maybe three to four. I could also go to a CBAT. I was also on lockdown there but I would have a bit more privilege. It would be more intensive but only about a week or two. Then there was the option of a partial hospitalization program. I would go during the days for intensive therapy with others my age and then I could sleep at home at nights. He asked what I thought I should be doing and he told me he would have to deliberate with his team and my parents. He asked what I thought I wanted—because I wasn't leaving without any form of treatment in place—but I had no idea. He said it was okay, and he'll be back with a verdict in no more than half an hour. But because I had disclosed to the nurse earlier that I haven't eaten a full meal in three days without throwing it up, a nutritionist would be bringing up a meal for me, and she would stay in the room with my parents and me until I ate it.

My parents returned with a nutritionist and food as promised. I sighed as the plate was set in front of me. Coupled with the looks of pity, my own self-pity, and the rage I felt towards the food, I decided to start crying. After like five minutes, I opted to eat slowly and cry. It took me a whole twenty-eight minutes for me to finish about seventy-five percent of the plate (which, I may add, is the size of a toddler's lunch plate).

Dr. Solace returned to talk to us, and upon seeing how much I had eaten, he seemed pretty proud of me. Then he decided to break the news to me. I looked like I exhibited symptoms of social anxiety and perhaps panic disorder, most likely I had either chronic depression or Major Depressive Disorder, and I most definitely had bulimia. His team thought that I would do best in an inpatient unit, since CBATs didn't really cater to eating disorders and I really needed the highest level of care there was. Additionally, an ambulance was waiting for me to bring me to Half-Blood Hill. Apparently it was one of the best mental health facilities that New York had to offer, and they only had a capacity of twelve for the adolescent inpatient unit. Since there was an empty bed at the moment, it was best for me to snatch the opportunity.

The paramedics came with a gurney right outside of my room, signaling that it was time to go. Dr. Solace wished me luck, handed my paper work over to the EMTs, and then I was strapped in and wheeled out of the emergency room. My parents told me to stay strong and assured me that everything is going to be alright and that this was for the best. That was enough to get me to hold in my tears as the ambulance doors locked and we drove out, my parents trailing us in the car. Dr. Solace said I would be at Half-Blood Hill for at least four weeks, and I was already counting down the milliseconds.