Attempts to get better on my own rebound with haunting, overpowering, dissociative episodes of guilt and irreality.
Sometimes i think about how easy it would be to reach out, tug and pull life out of my windpipe.
I think about it and it pinches my tearducts as fleeting moments of sober reflection tell me that it will be a waste and a shame and it would be traumatic for people near me, some of whom i’m sure will continue being outraged at just how fucking selfish i am/was.
yet at the same time it’s comforting
Knowing that I really don’t have to deal with any of this if I don’t want to, and nobody can make me live.
And how i could punish the person who cut me off because she couldn’t be arsed anymore.
But then those thoughts lose their gratifying immediacy too.
I feel ashamed as a I flick through the thoughts like catalogued snaps on instagram, bringing back memories of my childhood, of happiness and hope.
I feel ugly, tired, hopeless and destroyed and like there is nothing here for me.
But then I think about my lovely plants, their nursing family huddled on my tiny window sill in my tiny room.
The thought makes me warm and I instantly feel embarrassed. So childish and sentimental.
I think maybe this isn’t the end, but just the beginning.
What if things could be better, what if this moment in my life doesn’t have to just be hospitals, debt, isolation.
I have a good degree, I have work experience in my industry and great feedback.
I have a partner who seems to really love me.
I have friends and comrades, even if I have frozen them out recently some of them still seem to care.
Two days until I go to the clinic.