A few minutes ago I hate myself a bit more than I usually do. I cut my thigh. One single cut, but it was at that moment I realized I was...alone. I can’t tell my mom she’d be upset. Couldn’t tell My brother he’d tell mom. Couldn’t tell My other brother I was scared to. I also wanted to die but couldn’t because of my son and I hated that. I also hated that I hated that. 1 year and 1 month. 13 months. 395 days. Gone. Because I was a weak.