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So I'm just going to write this because it's true and it kind of makes all the previous stuff nonsense if I make a big gap here and don't even mention having been... not exactly one hundred per cent on a mission to end it all but nowhere near even fifty per cent on a mission to stay alive to the end of the day. Saturday. I mean truly, I can't do this any more. It is too fucking hard and just hurts too much. On Saturday I hurt too much. But my children, my loves, how can I even think of putting them through that? So I can't. But I cannot do this any more, not even for another minute. So I will. Etc, endless, endless on and on, called the wrong person for help. You need to call someone significantly, majorly less fucked up than yourself, not someone who lives quite close to the precipice herself - ach, I feel a deep hatred for her now - friendship just flipped over, and weariness, I can't find the energy - I'm still not in a great place, but I went to yoga... anyway, on Saturday

drugs alcohol scissors blood





and stuff

And now it's Monday night, I'm still here, home again and my hair will grow back, the scabs are gone already and the bruises will fade and nothing made any difference to the intensity of the pain except the passage of time - it gradually ebbed away until now I'm numb with a hint of embarrassment and shame and the knowledge that I must change my ways as I will have to stay alive for at least the next quite a while.

Today I am grateful for: my sis and nieces; the NHS; a long hug from Son's best mate this morning; my new glasses - I can fucking see again, it's a miracle; the beautiful S, who came and sorted my hair this morning and gave me lots of soothing music and somehow made me feel like a warrior

On we go, eh? Though to be honest I'm still not over-keen.

Laters x

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