When I realized that no one, even the mental health team who was responsible for my recovery, cared that much. During one of my stays at the psych ward, I tested out their safety measures, and I sooner realized that the staff was negligent to some extent. Hell, I managed to sneak in a razor prior to getting admitted, I used it to make a makeshift noose with a blanket. I was discharged 3 days after that and they didn't even bother checking my belongings before I was sent back home. I suppose I was diligent based on their observation. Surely, I was cooperative, I must be on my path to recovery. They don't care, really. It's all superficial pro-life nonsense. They're only obliged to step in because of some moral policy they have to uphold as part of their job. But these people are strangers, the only difference is that they get paid.
I've lost all connection with the friends I've made along the way because of circumstances I had no control over. Subsequently, it was BPD that sabotages my relationships as always. I can always start from the ground up but I know all too well how everything's going to go down eventually. And I'm tired of that, recovery is temporary - it just gives me rose-colored glasses until my facade cracks again.
Even after all the consecutive interventions, I'm still suicidal; nothing will ever change that. Recovery is a sham, I could stay for a little longer but ultimately everything is just a distraction. I could go to University like I thought I would but that doesn't change anything, I'm still going to ctb. Like everyone else, we form all these objectives to tackle, pretend that everything's okay despite our mental/physical/chronic illnesses. Build goals after another until we settle into dust. In actuality, we suffer more than we actually relish in life.