I wonder how many of the same days it took before the character in Groundhog Day tried to kill himself the first time. How many days watching the same events happen again and again before he overcame his fear of the unknown that is buried within the subconsious of us all, and tried to excape to oblivion? Did he have a moment's hesitation while he died? Did he immediately regret his decision? Or was he finally happy to be free? 

When I went to the Psychiatrist last week, I told her that I didn't think I was going to act on my thoughts. I told her that I didn't have a plan to follow through. I told her that I would let someone know, and ask them to keep an eye on me. I lied. The moment I reveal the truth to my family, the persona that I have spent my life building crumbles before my eyes. I will no longer be able to access the freedom that I so desperately crave to have. But with that freedom, comes greater risk to my well being.

I honestly don't know what will happen in the coming weeks. I do hope that I will be told that medication is the way to go. Being told that you need to talk about it just doesn't come naturally to me. I don't have anyone that I can be truly honest with. I thought I did. I was so sure.

Why J, why did that Ginger Prick deserve a second and a third chance, whereas I was dropped without blinking? What is it about me that makes people back track on their thoughts and feelings like that? Am I truly just a rag doll, that people are happy to throw around and abuse, before giving to the dog as a chewtoy?

This week, I told a friend that I wanted to kill myself. Not the first time I have said that, and certainly won't be the last. I see the blood spurting from my forearm as I slide a knife up the length of my arms. I watch as if from above as the life drains out of me. I see all the people that would be floored by it. One person in particular stands out in the grey crowd, her hair the blazing sun cutting through the grey colour of grief. And her look of betrayal and hopelessness used to keep me going.

But how can I keep going when she spurns and taunts me with her sobs and soothing words of love? When she dances close enough for me to breathe in the perfume of her life and let it keep me from the brink before dancing away from me?

My head is once more filled with the screams and moans of my mind. The anger that I can never reveal for fear of losing more. The mourning for the blood spilt in the name of love. The pull of the void that lovingly caresses, so inviting, so familiar.

JT. Getting over you is the hardest thing I'll ever do. Please forgive me when I fail.