That Close

Yesterday was close. I needed Jb, I needed the hospital, I needed something. So when Jb said he was coming home, I sat on the porch, telling myself if I could just hold it all together until he got home, I'd be okay. But all that ran through my head as I was chain smoking, waiting for him, was, "Just bleed out. Just bleed out. Just bleed out." I kept rocking myself, starring at the paving stones, looking up at every car that passed, hoping it was Jb, hopping it was the one person who'd make it all okay. Never, never have I thought Jb could fix me, but I'm better when he's around.

When he finally got home, I couldn't stop crying. I felt so guilty having to admit that I'd been having suicidal thoughts. He asked me if I needed the hospital, and I probably should have gone, but then I'd be back at square one, and I can't go back to that. I can't climb up out of that pit again, and maybe that's why I wanted to end it all. I was so tired. So tired of the meds and the therapist and the psychiatrist and the fact that even though they're brilliant, I still can't bring myself to leave the house today; I don't trust myself with razors. I'm standing at the brink, always at the brink.