When you’re driving to the house of the only person you love and the only things standing between hurting them and keeping them safe are the words under your tongue and the time it takes to get there, your own life suddenly becomes unimportant.
Not once in my life has suicide been a thought that I would actually consider. But when you’re driving alone and it’s raining and the person you would do anything for is going to despise you in a matter of seconds and you don’t even blame them because you hate yourself too, it becomes an option. I am screaming at myself from inside this machine that only I have control of and I remember whispering, “do it. You deserve to die.” I have never hated myself a fraction of the amount I did in this moment, and for the first time in my life, the only thing stopping me from destroying everything I had ever become were the people I had already hurt. I decided one stab wound was enough.