Mirrors, suicide, Ativan, needles

Last night I bought a full-length mirror, 'cause I've never had one before and I wanted to be able to take full-body pictures every morning. I wanna be able to see a progression. Anyway, I put it up with some of those heavy-duty command strips, the kind that aren't supposed to fuck up your wall. And I'm renting an apartment, so I don't want my walls fucked up. I put it by my door so I could see myself before I leave my room. I tried to go to sleep around 2am, but it didn't work, because it never works, and because the mirror was reflecting too much light and I couldn't sleep. So, at 2am, I turned my lights back on and tried to move the mirror, only it was stuck too tight. So I pulled it. Hard. And all four command strips ripped off four chunks of paint. Big rectangles on my wall.
And I just started sobbing. I curled up on my floor like a four-year-old and cried for about an hour, because I'm such a fuck up and I can't even take off a mirror right and I was stupid for hanging it up in the first place and I'll never be thin and I'm not cut out for grad school. Around 3am, I realized I was suicidal and called the crisis hotline. Second time I've had to do that. The woman on the other end just told me to "get some sleep." If I could sleep, I wouldn't be having this fucking problem in the first place. So, we talked for about five minutes. I hung up. I cried for another hour. I'm not sure when I passed out, but I was exhausted.
 I had an appointment with my campus doctor this morning to talk about my medication. Therapist wants me to go back on Ativan, because apparently coping with pills is better than coping by starving. I can see her point, but Ativan feels like cheating. I missed the appointment at 10:30am because I couldn't fucking move in my bed. I woke up and cried for another ninety minutes, washed my face, left for campus. Walking into the clinic at 1pm. Doctor was not happy about me wanting Ativan again, because she thinks I'm likely to just down the whole bottle. I'm not. That would be cheating. She prescribed it anyway. She also wanted to check my thyroid.  I fucking hate needles. They're probably one of my worst physical fears, but I let them take my blood anyway. Only they couldn't. I was too dehydrated and my veins weren't showing. So after sticking needles in both my arms and fishing around, they told me to come back another day. Both of the crooks of my elbows are bruised up and I look like a heroin junkie.
One of the nice girls in my program ran into me while I was on my way to my office. I still had bandages and gauze around both arms. She took one look at me and asked me if I'd been punched in the face. I told her no, that I'd just hadn't slept well and had been crying because of my needle-phobia.
I think I might be suicidal, for the first time in my life. Only I'd rather starve myself than anything else, because at least then, I feel like I can control it. I can step back right before I jump off the cliff and say "hey, wait, just kidding!"