I had to sober up yesterday so I could do some year-end paperwork.
During those few hours, my suicidal thoughts were the lowest they've been in months. Maybe at a 7.
I'd forgotten how normal it felt sitting at a keyboard with my nails clicking at the keys. Shuffling through papers, stapling things together.
I had no desire to come on here and talk about dying. I went ahead and cleaned the kitchen, sorted through mail, cooked some picadillo.
But it didn't last. It never does.
Today I'm right back at a 10. Obsessed with dying. Muttering to myself about how I need to get on with it. I took the picadillo out to fix a bowl, stared at it and put it right back up.
I can't eat when I'm on a 10.