I feel like dying.
I don’t understand. I was feeling pretty good this morning. It’s something about therapy, but I don’t know what. I leave feeling worse, and it’s not the productive kind of feeling worse.
I only partly remember today’s session. I remember feeling hopeless and crying, and I remember yelling at myself to stop in my head. But I don’t remember what set it off. I remember being sure NT was sick of me, and I remember saying several times, “This is my last chance,” and I remember being angry at NT for telling me things will work out. But it’s bits and pieces, not quite coherent.
At the end of the session, she said I didn’t even look like I’d been crying.
“No, I never do,” I said.
Sometimes I wish I wasn’t so good at looking like I’m fine. I want people to see how much I hurt all the time. I want them to see it so I don’t have to tell them.
When I lived in Boston, a little over a year ago, I stood on the bridge over the Charles River, wanting to kill myself and wishing someone would care enough to notice and stop me. It’s this big bridge with lots of traffic–the T, cars, and pedestrians. I stood there crying at the edge of the rail. It was May, but it was cloudy and cold. No one noticed me. I don’t know what I expected from anyone; if I saw anyone crying in public, I’d assume they wanted to be left alone and walk on past. I don’t know why I thought anyone else would or even could save me.
But I want it again right now. I want someone to see how much I hurt and make it better, or at least be with me. But they can’t. I’m too far away from myself for anyone to get close enough.