I hate coming home.
It’s a Friday evening – a beautiful evening – and I’m drinking. I’ve been scheduled in work all week next week, which I’m happy about. It’s an escape. I see friends. I forget. But for now, I’m drinking.
I hate when I do this. It fucks up my running and that’s one of the few things I still care about. I don’t care about myself. I fucking hate myself. I wish I was never born. I wish I could kill myself. I want to hurt myself all the time. I’m constantly thinking about cutting, really cutting, something I haven’t done for years. I think I’ll have done it before this is all through. I haven’t self-harmed in 14 years. I hate my scars but right now, that’s the least of my worries, because I’m not sure I’ll make it through this.
The only thing keeping me going? Literally the only reason I’m still here right now? My parrots. I have two parrots. They depend on me 100% and I love them so much. I can’t imagine what they’d think if they woke up one day and I wasn’t there. I have to wake up so I’m here when they wake up. That’s all I’m aiming for.