“102715.txt” — 27 october 2015, 3:10am (which time zone? i was in montréal when i wrote this, i think — but that doesn't tell me which time zone this timestamp is in)
in may for a weekend i didn't sleep. it was a holiday weekend. i remember snapchatting myself buying groceries— nothing but sorbet, i think. and sparkling clementine juice. and the fact that i ran out of gas and my ex watched that snapchat before i realised snapchat tells you who watched your snapchat. and now we're friends again so i don't really want to just call him “my ex” anymore because it places him in the category of so many shitty people, and in comparison, he was never that bad.
i probably almost died that night.
it's been hard for me to want to live this year (last year) (the year before) (and the...)
but especially this year.
i told someone recently if i could have been not-suicidal, i would have been.
who chooses to feel like shit? no one. absolutely no one.
telling someone depression is in their control is like blaming terminally ill patients for their more physical illness
tonight i feel like being self-destructive. at one point i stopped hurting myself with my own hands or body and started hurting myself using other people, which is arguably better and worse. better because you can blame someone else for it; worse because you harm not just one, but two humans in the process.
but i won't.
*i now disagree that people can “use other people” to hurt themselves. this was a way for me to blame myself for others abusing me, and to blame myself for me “choosing” them. — 2022 april 22, 3:18am