I often wonder what you’re up to. I wonder how you’re coping. I imagine all sorts of things you might be doing. Things I can’t do anymore. I can’t go out and drink anymore, or go to parties, or socialise beyond my immediate family, or go camping on a weekend.

No, this is what it looks like for me: performing wild mental acrobatics just to cope with the pain of the memories we share; telling my dad every time I get up for a glass of water because he’s so afraid I’m going to try and kill myself again; learning how to regulate my emotions because I obviously fucking skipped that lecture; RElearning how to enjoy things for myself; putting words on sticky notes around the house in order to prevent me hurting myself anymore; constant liaison with hospital staff; phoning helplines at 3 in the morning; avoiding touching certain objects because of their tenuous association with you; sleeping in different beds in order to try and soothe my nightmares; treading water one day until the next; consolidating everything about my life that I’m unsatisfied with; performing verbal tics whenever I have an intrusive thought about you; asking my family if I’m a bad person; guilt, guilt, guilt.

I wish I could get over this like I imagine you are. It’s important to note there’s no resentment towards you or anything like that, I just hate the reality of my situation so much. I’m living in a nightmare. I’m in Hell. And it feels like a Hell entirely of my own design.