So I've not told very many, close friends and my parents, but I committed myself to a psyche ward. Because of the suicide thing. Or, because I wanted to do it, I had a plan. I had sleeping pills and I was gonna get some booze and a knife and get in a hot bath. Make sure it was gonna work. Make sure I was alone.
I didn't do it though. I came here and I've been here a week now.
It helps me. I feel better. I still cry and ask the nurses why it's so important that I stay alive, I've been alive for almost thirty years, can't that be enough? If I don't want to live, why do I have to? Why?
But today me and a couple of the other patients played scrabble and talked about literature and poetry and movies and cigarettes and a lot of other things and it feels good to be with people who also feel like shit. We can laugh about it.
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