I’m not done with suicidality, with cutting, with self-destruction on the whole, but I need to be. I’m not done with them. I’m not finished my long-standing romance with self-hatred and mutilation and the primal scream of insanity, but I’m choosing to leave. It feels premature. It doesn’t feel good. I don’t like it. But I have to do it, if I want to be responsible. If I want to have a chance. If I want to use my time well. If I want to rediscover hope. If I want to breathe. If I want to dream again. I don’t particularly want to, but I’m choosing to try this letting go, this forsaking of misery, for the chance that I can live without wanting to hurt, live without wanting to end. It feels so very lonely to do this. It feels strange. It feels like shutting away a best friend, but I know it’s much more like leaving an abusive lover. It’s tough when it’s me, when I’m the abuser and the abused. But I have to make this choice. If I don’t, I will throw my life away.
No harder choice than this. No better time than now.