I’ve written a lot of goodbye notes

to my father, to past and current partners, to my best friend in the world and my first love. To other friends, close friends. It’s like I’m working up an inventory so they will all be ready when the time comes. The time hasn’t come. On the good days there is too much that is bright and sacred. On the bad days I can’t seem to summon the courage. I’m too afraid of the finality of the act. I never could make a decision, not even the simplest ones like where to go during a day, who to see. It stands to reason then that I can’t make this decision either.

Also I made a promise, and I don’t intend to go back on it. Yet still I write the letters. And every day seems sort of pale and grainy, and I cut into my arms and the skin below my waist and I think about me, the lack of me, what I take from everyone, from my surroundings, what I don’t contribute to or create for anyone. The vacuum of myself.

Why do we stay, I’ve been asking people. Always different answers, of course. Defiance. Too much to lose. Too much pain to cause. A simple refusal to accept defeat. A resignation that the act will lend so much horror to so many people’s every day, that it’s best to just endure so as not to hurt. Things to look forward to. A life that was promised.

All valid. And all meaningful. I made a promise. I guess that’s my reason.


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I'm a former student of English literature, an editor and a creative writer who has been attempting to live with body dysmorphic disorder as well as severe anxiety and a recent diagnosis of Bipolar II. I believe that struggles with mental health are often lifelong and people in these situations need comfort, support and occasional moments of peace granted to them in order to survive.

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