see, look, i cut myself. first time since 2023. and if you keep asking me those stupid fucking questions, i’ll do it again.
that’s what i would say. but oh, the threat of hospitalization looms darkly overhead, though by now its once-terrifying grip has been relegated to the realm of mere annoyance. an inconvenient disruption to my otherwise tepid every-daily life.
self-immolation. wanting something badly enough to destroy myself over it. wouldn’t that be nice.
(self) destructive tendencies i can’t and won’t feed – take my mother, for example. i thought about ordering some book online, getting past the affair, something like that, a title i might’ve once seen tucked between her psychology textbooks and crime and punishment. i’d leave it on her desk like a bomb. no note or anything.
i wondered, would she mention it to any of her children? or would she keep it to herself? would it eat away at her, not knowing who placed it there or why?
of course i never did that. just like i never screamed at my therapist. i didn’t want it that badly.