So a few months ago while I sat at my desk alone in a flat I shared, a thought crossed my mind. I looked at my box cutters laying on the side of my desk and then looked at my wrists.

“Cut them. Cut them and let’s see how long it take for someone to show up. It will be quick and probably painful but you don’t mind the pain. Do it. Cut your wrists.“

It took me a few seconds to realize that the voice I was hearing was my own. I was coaxing myself to an attempt at suicide. ME. I was the one not only telling myself to kill myself but also I was telling myself that no one cared enough about me that finding me the next morning drenched in my own blood would make them feel anything. I never realized that my mind was slipping and that the stress I had been pushing back was now at the front counter waiting to be served.

No one came home that night and if I had gone through with it I would have most likely sat there until the next afternoon.

Looking back at that moment scares me. What happens the next time that thought comes back and takes another swing at me. Why do I feel like this. Why do I feel like I’m some forsaken lamb stuck in the middle of an enclosing pit. What happens when the next time this happens I can’t think of reason to argue against all of this? Why do these tears hurt so much when they’re supposed to be a release?