January 3rd, 9 pm

In 1984, Phil Donahue said "Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem." No offense to Phil, but that's the most moronic statement ever uttered. He's clearly never been through what I have.

I should rewind a little and introduce myself. My name is Rachel Berry. I'm 18 years old and this past October, I unsuccessfully attempted to take my life. This journal I'm currently writing in, a gift courtesy of my dad, is supposed to help me deal with all of my thoughts and feelings so I don't try to off myself again. At least that's what the hospital shrink said before discharging me home.

I've never been much of a writer. In fact, I hate writing. I'm an artistic person, but I prefer to use dance as a medium to express that creativeness, not a pen and paper. But, if the good head doctor thinks this is going to help me "deal with all the traumas in my life" (his words, not mine), I guess I can give it a shot.

You must be wondering about me. Who am I, where do I come from, what makes a perfectly healthy 18-year-old put a razor blade to her wrists and try to send herself to the big sleep. Well, you would if you were alive and not a lifeless book of dead trees.

I'm the offspring of two people who should never have hooked up in the first place. My dad, Issac Berry, always wanted more than a small town life. He wanted to move out of Whitefish, the small Montana town where he grew up, and make it big in the city. Unfortunately, he impregnated my mother before he even had a high school diploma.

Emma, my mother, was more than happy staying in Whitefish. Her family had lived there for generations, and she wasn't about to be the first one to leave. They had a shotgun wedding after Emma found out she was knocked up, so Dad and Emma lived together long enough for me to be born. After that, Dad started making plans to move to the East coast, while Emma made plans to leave him.

In the end, Dad took me and we moved to Miami, Florida before I was even a year old. Emma gave him full custody and a divorce.

Dad ended up in college before moving on to law school, raising me by himself the whole time. I had just turned eight when he got his first job as a lawyer at a firm on Miami Beach. It was just the two of us, and life was perfect.

Emma would call once or twice a year to say hi and wish me happy birthday, but I never had a relationship with her. Nor did I want one. This was the woman who gave me up so she could have the life she wanted. She never made sacrifices the way my dad did. She didn't put her dating life on hold while I grew up. She never saw one dance recital or school play, while Dad made sure he was out of the office on time to see every one of them.

When I was twelve, my Aunt April moved in with me and my dad, her husband having just died in a car accident. So, after that, it went from the two of us to the three of us.

It couldn't have been better. Aunt April was the female influence I needed in my life. She helped me with makeup, clothes, and boy problems (not that I had any of those). She took me to dance class while Dad was working, and showed me how to cook without burning the house down. She took me to get my nails done every month, and promised not to tell my dad when I rebelled and got my bellybutton secretly pierced.

Dad and Aunt April were so proud when I got into Julliard's dance program, and they started making plans to move up to New York once I was in school. In fact, they had the house on the market when the incident happened the weekend before Halloween.

After the incident, I stole my roommates razor and slit my wrists, earning myself a long stay in the hospital and daily visits from the hospital's resident shrink. After he decided I wasn't a complete headcase and it was safe to let me rejoin society, I quit school and moved back home.

But I wasn't really living. I spent all day on the couch watching TV. By Thanksgiving, I had seen every episode of Say Yes to the Dress, both the New York and Atlanta versions. I stopped dancing, and started gaining some weight. I stopped talking to all my friends, and they eventually stopped calling.

Finally, my dad had enough.

"Rachel, that's it," he said one day in December.

"What's it, Dad?"

"I can't take this anymore. You need help, more help than I can give you. I called your mother last night, and we both agreed it would be best if you spent some time with her in Montana."

I looked up at him, my face expressionless. "You're kicking me out?"

"No, I'm trying to help you. I've tried and tried, but nothing I do seems to be working. Your mom and Will have an extra bedroom at their house. She said she'd love to have you move in with them."

"For how long?" I asked.

"That's up to them."

"Don't you want me here, Dad?"

"Of course I do, baby. I wouldn't be doing this unless I thought it was necessary. Your mom's even looking for a therapist for you to see."

"Why? It's pointless. Nothing they say helps me."

"Well, if you did what they asked you to do, it might help. Like that doctor from the hospital. He said you should keep a diary or a journal. Here." He handed me the blue journal I'm currently writing in. "It won't hurt to try. Now, your aunt and I are going to bring you out there right after the holidays. We'll call every day, I promise."

So that is how I ended up in a tiny room in Whitefish, Montana. I've been here almost 24 hours now, and I hate it. Emma (I refuse to call her mom) and her new husband, Will, greeted me at Glacier Park International Airport in a gray pickup truck. They loaded my things in the back and took the 20 minute drive back to their house.

Waiting in the kitchen was Jesse, Will's son from his first marriage. I'd only met him once when I was six at their wedding, and I honestly didn't remember anything about him. Emma said he was going to be my transportation for now since apparently they don't trust me enough to get behind the wheel of a car.

They also don't trust me enough to be alone. My room has no door and Emma always waits outside when I'm in the bathroom. Prison would be better than living here.

Tomorrow they're taking me to see my new shrink, and then after that I'm being forced to attend a support group for fucked up kids like me. Emma is hoping I make some friends or something to keep me from trying to hang myself in my closet.

Jesse just stopped in my room reminding me we have to leave early to drive the half hour it'll take to get to my doctor's office in Kalispell. I guess I should wrap things up for now. Gotta be on my A game to meet the new head shrink.

Well, this first experiment writing wasn't a complete bust, so I guess I'll continue it tomorrow. Assuming I don't jump out of my window tonight, of course. I don't think I will. I want to make it through tomorrow, at least.

That way, I can prove Emma wrong when I come home without any new friends.