It’s been nearly 6 months since you walked away. 6 months since you threw away a decade of amazing friendship. 6 months since you left me there, crying uncontrollably, and just shut the door.
It’s been almost 5 months since I left the hospital for a third time in a year. 5 months since I was met with all those eyes who knew me so well, wondering why I was back again. 5 months since my first real ambulance ride. 5 months since having to try to sleep through the 15 minute checks and patients being admitted in the middle of the night. 5 months since I left that unit, swearing this time was the last time.
It’s been close to 4 months since I mailed you that letter. 4 months since I poured my soul out to you on paper, foolishly hoping something would change. 4 months since I last bought postage, 4 months since I’ve actually been to a post office at all. 4 months of holding my breath, waiting for you to come back or say anything at all.
It’s been right around 3 months since I last cut into my skin. 3 months since I sat and carved away and watched it bleed. 3 months since I’ve had to try to hide any wounds, 3 months since I stopped and threw the blade away.
I think it’s been 2 months since you last answered a text. 2 months since I asked you to lunch (which you declined). 2 months since I tried to get you to see that I’m getting better, 2 months since I told you I’m the real me. 2 months since you’ve even acknowledged my existence.
It’s been 1 month since I purchased razor blades. 1 month since I stumbled into weakness, 1 month since I hid them but then ended up giving them to my therapist anyway. 1 month since I had to radically accept it’s over, 1 month since my therapist started asking me to move on. 1 month since I sat there scratching at my skin while screaming on the inside because the desire was so strong.
It’s been 3 weeks since I drove by your house. 3 weeks since I was alone late at night with nowhere else to go. 3 weeks since I pictured you inside, happy and at peace. 3 weeks since I wondered what you’d do if I died, 3 weeks since I questioned if you even cared at all.
It’s been 2 weeks since I last thought about suicide. 2 weeks since I was actively seeking ways to die. 2 weeks since I counted pills or researched about guns.
It’s been almost 1 week since I hated myself. 1 week since I had a bad borderline day. 1 week since I yelled at a coworker then instantly wanted to cry.
My life keeps going, it’s always flying by. Without you it’s definitely different, but I guess you don’t really care why. A part me will always miss you, though. Part of me will always wonder why. But part of me knows that I’m more than just a borderline, and if you couldn’t accept that and stand by my side, then I probably didn’t need you as much as I thought.