Hell is having a horrendous therapy session, but being unable to act to protect yourself for another two days.
Hell is being hurt by someone paid to care. Again.
Hell is being triggered so badly that your skin is crawling.
Hell is finding your courage and drive to heal, only to find that door wasn’t as open as you thought.
Hell is needing to curl up into someone who will never allow such closeness.
Hell is coming on a short break away and forgetting to pack blades.
Hell is considering whether you could drop a glass or smash a lightbulb and pretend it was an accident.
Hell is driving to the short break in the rain, making a mental list of all the ways you could kill yourself and make it look like an accident.
Hell is picking bridge after ledge after tree after lorry to drive off or into, and never quite having the courage each time.
Hell is remembering her telling me she’d miss me.
Hell is knowing that you have two choices; to kill yourself, or not to kill yourself. Hell is knowing that both of those choices would be wrong.
Hell is lying in bed in a strange house, listening to the sea and the rain, and trying to remember what I did to make me deserve this.