And I have returned.
Is it a drug almost? The thought that someone on this merciful site understands.
Since my previous posts, the situation has changed significantly. But the memories hold me here, they bring me back. I remember all to well my days of pain. I am numb now nearly, or more callous I should say, I take what I can now, but I refuse to beg for more. I am arguably better, happier. I wasn’t thinking about suicide. But here I am, over one year I kept away, yet here I am. Only the MEMORY, the vague shadow, of my pain.
I still think it’s true, suicide is a pretty word. And much like the difference between their definitions, suicide and killing oneself are two sides of the same coin. One is pretty to see, and the other…we don’t talk about.