I think I was a cat in a past life. As of Monday, I survived my eighth suicide attempt. I only have one life left then, I suppose.
One of my obsessive anxious behaviours is that I cannot stand people knowing things about me that I don’t know myself, so I always, always, read my discharge summaries, referrals, notes… you get the idea. Which is how I found out that my liver is on the verge of death, after taking a high lethality overdose.
Still wasn’t lethal though, was it?
Still useless at killing myself, aren’t I?
Still worthless, failing at even the simplest tasks – like killing myself.
Things aren’t even bad right now. Mood is okay. Life is stable. Uni is great.
Thoughts are loud.
I’ve been working a lot on my poetry lately, and my book, so I haven’t really been writing much here. I’m still chugging along, desperately clinging to the bits of life I actually enjoy and self-destructively destroying everything else that doesn’t serve me well.
That’s the best I can do right now.