[i_like_black]

You're a nut job. Honestly. You want to be a therapist, and yet you can't even behave in your own therapy sessions.
I don't think you'll ever make it back to uni. I think you'll misbehave once too often and get sectioned. And once you're sectioned, I think you'll probably stay that way, because hospital will have all the people will who cater to your every whim the way you so clearly want them to.

You say you understand but the reality is, you don't. Not at all. If you did, it would show in what you say. All I can see from what you say is you've found a couple of small, seemingly-key points and you're sticking by them. Which is idiotic, in the least.

So no, I don't think you'll ever achieve your goals. First of all, you can't get on top of your own mental health, and secondly, I actually don't think you're smart enough or tough enough to handle a university degree.

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I don't want to tell you the truth because I don't want to go down the same road as I did last year. Also, although I like you reasonably well enough, I don't find myself able to trust you with my confidences, especially as I know you're leaving so there's really no point building up a relationship.
This year, with a few exceptions, is following almost exactly the same pattern as last year. If it keeps up, maybe I'll tell the new person. Or my key worker. But my emotions are the same. My actions are a bit different, but who cares?
I'm not going to tell you about the drugs because then you could tell my family, and me and my family are getting along badly enough as it is. Also, I don't want to jeopardise potentially getting my license back in October. I'm pratically living for that.
I'm not suicidal. I'm not even cutting. I'm just getting stoned, which isn't a big thing, because when I'm stoned, I either play RuneScape, or paint, or read, or sleep. It's not like I go out looking for trouble or anything like that. Not in May.
I'm scared of what happens next. Last year it was around June that I started really slipping, properly. And in August there were two very, very non-lethal suicide attempts, although I wouldn't admit it at the time. Then in September it was Citalopram, and I felt good, then everybody said it was too good, so they took me off it, and in October, I parked my car in the fast lane with the lights off because it seemed like an awesome, awesome idea, and everything was great, and I fully appreciated how dangerous it was, and that's what made it great. And the truth is, the knife was in the driver's door pocket because I wanted to stab somebody, but I missed my opportunity because that particular cop spoke to me through the passenger door.
And in October, I got put under the mental health act for the first time, then on Olanzapine, and I got low fast, and I tried to hang myself - except my neck didn't break, and I wasn't suffocating because my feet were touching the ground. So I just had to climb out of the noose and accept that my garage beams simply weren't high enough.
Then there was respite. I went for a walk (albeit on the motorway) and got mental health acted and sent to hospital for the first time. I tried to run away from hospital and got put in the locked ward. After leaving hospital I had to go to sub acute. It was horrible, I hated it. The food was yuck. I realised I'd gained weight. And I got told I could either move back to my Mum's or go into shared care, they wouldn't allow me to continue to live independently. It was horrible.
I moved back to Mum's and I hated it, so I drank a bottle of paracetamol. I made the mistake of e-mailing my psychologist, thinking (hoping) she wouldn't get the e-mail until after the weekend. She got the e-mail the same day. She called an ambulance. The ambulance took me to ED, and from ED I got referred to . . . the psych ward. I was informal so I tried to leave . . . then got put under the mental health act, and back into the locked ward. I found a way to SH in the locked ward, so I got moved to a 3 bed unit which is basically locked intensive care. I hated it. Apparently I almost broke my knuckles punching things.
Eventually I got out. My at the time psychiatrist said she wanted me to stay as informal but would let me leave if I chose that. I chose to go home.
Was fine until uni was about to begin, got stressed, got scared, got low. Spent a couple of weeks in respite. Started uni. Things got worse. Had a clear suicide plan. Ended up in hospital, and, unsurprisingly, not long after arriving got moved to the locked ward. After being released at the end of March, aside from a brief altercation with the law (for which my court date is looming) I've been mostly ok.

Same as last year. Depressed at the beginning, due to stress, end up in hospital feb-marchish. Mostly ok april onwards. Now we wait. See if something more happens.

I'm scared, oh god I'm scared. I don't want to get depressed again. I don't want to get high again either.
That's why I can't tell you. I can't tell you because if I start talking, you'll find out too much, and it will prevent me from achieving my goals.