I feel sane and alive and awake for the first time in about six weeks. Since finding out how terminal my mom actually is. The depression hits hard and I try to remember to swallow my pills and I focus every ounce of emotional energy I have on not cutting or killing myself.
And I hate myself for hurting so badly. Even though I have every right to. Even though anyone would in my position. But I hate myself because I feel as if I fell all the way back to Point A. As if all of the progress I made was eradicated with a single phone call.
But today. Today I feel sane. Sane and optimistic. Food tastes good and I didn't feel like harming myself. And I whisper, “Please don’t let this go away. Please. Please. Please.”