Therapy is working. At least I think it is.. God, I hope it is. I went a week with out the thought of taking myself out. The intrusive memories and images have began to fade. I can’t afford therapy but I need it. August was a hard month for my mental health. My husband doesn’t know this but I almost followed through with unaliving myself that month. Every day I woke up resenting God for not taking me in my sleep and then I’d lay in bed trying to decide how I wanted to go. Car crash? No. My husband would have too much to deal with. Shot Gun to the head? No. That would be messy and if I fuck it up I’ll be left in a hospital bed like a potatoe until my organs decided to fail. Also, I’d rather not traumatize the poor soul who happened to stumble upon my disfigured dome.
I’ve taken care of too many potatoes to want to do anything that would risk me becoming one. Hanging can lead to paralysis and brain injury instead of death, so that’s out. It took all of my energy not to follow through with it like I tried in the past, shocking how much it takes to overdose to the point of no return. Or maybe it just wasn’t my time.
No I don’t do drugs. It was a one time deal, supposed to be a one and done type deal but fate has other plans. And we’re bringing it back to the positives.
I’m on my last week of fall quarter in college. I went into this quarter taking intro to literature thinking that it would teach me how to write and understand poetry, that was false advertisement by the course description. I learned how to pull an essay out of my ass in 5 hours.
I don’t know how we’re going to pay rent this month.