Another autumn

I wish I could hear him say:
‘I’m with (her) and happy.
You’re forgiven for being a ****.
I’ve changed.
I’m alive. Are you?’

If he’d changed things, I could let go.

If I didn’t think of him, the depression wouldn’t be as painful – but that’s what’s bringing me back here. Remembering feeds the depression each time it gets worse. Before that, it was getting easier.

I’m getting more suicidal. I can’t and won’t kill myself, so I just have to try to accept it and work around it.

I can’t sleep again. I think I’m getting ill. I’m too hot and cold.

I crashed again today and came home feeling like I was going to collapse or break down in tears.

I’m in a beautiful place. I have a comfortable bed. The house is surrounded by birds. Things are quiet. I can rest whenever I need. But every day I feel like screaming from the pain of depression. Then there’s ME. The support I’ve had is amazing, but I can’t bear it when people say it’ll hopefully improve over time. My mind and muscles are wasting away. I need it to have an end. I want to live again. To die. Something else. Anything.