I made it to my birthday and I didn't try to kill myself even once.

Last night I got pretty fucking close. Rampages are THE MOST terrifying thing to experience completely alone. I want to live I want to live and I know I do because I had it in me to get help and help came and cleaned up my mess and I was kind of okay then.

I threw thumbtacks and one got stuck in my foot.
I pushed things out of the pantry.
I pounded my fists on desks and counters
I tried to talk myself out of it
My diaries had no hope, I broke one against the hall floor- I cried about it
I slammed drawers. I broke one- I cried about it
I stood against walls, I paced the apartment
I tried to talk myself out of it.

What I didn't do was break one single thing that was glass and could hurt someone else.
I did not pound my head against corners or floors
I did not kick walls
I did not ruin anyone else's possessions.

So I did alright.

I felt like a snowball (excuse the poor analogy). It started with writing on here, then writing in my private journal, then SCREAMINGANDSCREAMINGANDSCREAMINGANDSCREAMING. When I think about it now I want to cry some more, because that scream came from a place I didn't even know existed inside of me.
I remember being morbidly fascinated by itt, noting that I knew I was screaming but also not believing that the sound filling up the room could be coming from me.

I thought the neighbors would call security, or the police. The general loudness of my apartment was my saving grace last night - If I get put away again that will be the end of me.

So I'm alive, and I'm okay and I'm a little tired and I have a headache. So I feel like a human being again.

It makes me sad to think that if I wanted to have a child I would not have the mental capacity to take care of it.
Weird thought, but it's true. It's heartbreaking.









endpost.