Time to make this into the writing prompt that will not die. I'm reading it tomorrow at Borders, and it's going into my portfolio, and now y'all can read it. Best if read out loud in a sarcastic, angry half-shout in front of a bunch of people who've only known you for 2 1/2 weeks.
"Think about a place where you questioned the worth of your life, or life in general. Draw this place, and then write about it. Try to capture the mood you were in at the time in your description of your surroundings. Tell at least one lie or secret, but NEVER tell what they are."
The picture, which I may scan when I get home, is of a couch and a chair, two tables with tissue boxes, and a purple wall. The chair is labelled "not my chair" and the wall is labelled "awful". I know. Just let me write.
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I hated that couch, with its three square cushions and soft but uncomfortable armrests. I can't even remember what color it was, only that I hated it. Some non-descript shade of brown and gray, perhaps. I don't want to remember. I do remember the walls, much as I wish I didn't- an awful shade of not-purple that reminded me of so much rotting brain tissue, picked apart and spread across the walls to dry. It puslated repusively if I glanced at it out of the corner of my eye, beneath the spastic, unhealthy flourescent lights.

There were never any windows open; too chill to allow any refreshing breeze in. It was winter, not only for me, but for the rest of my world. I still don't understand why he couldn't have at least opened the blinds a little- to let some light into that tiny, cave-like room with its indifferent couch and his chair.

His chair. Probably the most traumatic thing ever; being told to sit elsewhere on the first day. It was my time, I would sit wherever I damn well pleased.

But I didn't. I got up and sat on the far end of that couch, next to the tissue box.

That tissue box came to be my friend over the next few months. As if I didn't know already that I was a failure, he had to drill that message into my skull with his monotone voice and Paintings at an Exhibition and PDQ Bach. Just another whiny little girl with money to throw away, crafting lies for teachers and parents until someone got mad. Or until someone went mad- that was why I was there, after all.

Mad. Crazy. Messed up in the head. Sitting in a shrink's office bawling my eyes out with the Brandenburg number three, first movement playing in my head as though my life had become a demented and PG rated form of A Clockwork Orange.

I hated everything.
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I told two obvious lies, and one less obvious. I'll never tell which they were, though.
Writing that and reading it aloud was probably one of the most cathartic experiences of my life.