I’m slowly retreating. I can feel it. My edges are folding in, protecting myself, folding again, and again, like Origami. There’s an irony there. A project that I’ve started – and haven’t launched yet. More on that another time. About a year ago – meaning, a year ago this week… I had a panic attack on top of a series of stress and depression. For the first time ever, I contemplated killing myself. My husband was home and I told him to take me into the ER. I cried the entire way there, the walk through the hospital. I got seen quickly – because suicidal ideation is no joke. Tests, questions, tears, too many people in the room.
I say that I do in fact want to be admitted to the psychiatric ward. This is terrifying.
I don’t know how long I will be there. I message two close friends quickly and tell Tony to keep them updated for me. They take my phone. They take my clothes. They take all of my things.
It was a year ago. I am in a so much better place. I haven’t considered killing myself to be a viable option. Things are so much better. I have resources. But I still feel it tugging at me, the feelings of being there: the panic attack, the hospital, the psych ward. And today, I am unbearably sad.