I am crying a lot, mostly over nothing. Two days ago it was a plant I killed (I fairly regularly kill plants, I am not the most green fingered of individuals), today it was a poem I read about a dog.
But I am well.
It’s getting harder and harder to leave the house. I make excuses – I’m busy, it’s cold, there’s something interesting on the telly. I won’t go out alone, the world is too scary without someone to hold my hand.
But I am fine.
I am sleeping more. Bed is a warm, safe haven where I can curl up without facing the responsibilities of the day. Falling asleep is hard, the memories haunt me.
But I am better.
I cut. Just once but there will be more. It feels good.
But I am ok.
I have increasing paranoia. My boyfriend is angry at me, he hates me, he’s not coming home. People on the street stare at me, they judge with their eyes.
But I am good.
I count my pills. I wonder what they would do, I think of the quiet, the release.
But don’t you see, this can’t be happening to me. I am well, fine, better, ok, good. This isn’t real.