Bathroom cry in Runaway

Last Thursday, maybe early Friday morning, I took a razor blade to my skin for the first time in six years. Very minor damage. I said “That’s enough for now.”

Now, I’m sitting in the rarely used 5th floor bathroom at work thinking about the box cutter in the shipping area. I want it. But how do I go get it. My puffy, tear soaked, mascara streaked face.

Maybe cutting is a plea for help. I thought it would be proof to Kyle and my therapist that I’m getting worse but… I don’t think they were convinced. Maybe this next one will be cause for concern. This time it won’t be because of the week I had, it won’t be because I wasn’t meeting my needs. This is me. This is where I always come back to. I feel like it really is a matter of time before I die by suicide. It’s going to take me. I’m going to let it consume me bc I can’t fight it when I’m like this.

And then people will finally see what I’ve been saying all along. Troubled. Depressed. Sensitive. Annoying. Hyper critical. Moody.

We were at a wedding this weekend and someone called me “electrifying.” That’s right, too. When I’m good, when I’m stable, I’m so good. I’m energetic and positive and fun. But there’s this side, this part of me that takes over. I can be full of life and them boom, I’m dreaming of death and freedom, crying in a bathroom stall. I can’t escape this cycle. I’m tied to this forever and some day, it will take me.

If I die by suicide, Robin wins. She’ll say she tried to help, she tried to be there, she did her best. She’ll make my death about her. Fuck her.