I want to go home.
The reality is I’m sitting on our sofa in front of our TV, but I don’t feel home.
Maybe an hour in bed would make me feel better, but right now nowhere feels quite like I’m home or a place where I can be myself.
I paint on the face with the kids to they think I’m getting my shit together.
They don’t deserve to keep seeing the wreck that I am.
And I’ve tried talking to my husband, but because my thoughts are so contradictory to one another he does seem to be able to understand where I am in my head at the moment. He’s more a black and white thinker with Spock like logicality.
It’s very difficult to explain how I plan and feel the need to purchase the items that I have identified that will be needed in a suicide attempt.
But I have no desire to actually die.
So then why do feel this necessity to get them and hide them in my house.
My house is becoming fuller and fuller as I keep trying to locate the ideal craft project that will distract me from my negative thoughts.
I can’t remember the last time I properly cleaned.
It all seems a waste of time.
A time I fill scrolling through FB, news articles or Instagram.
Nothing productive.
It’s like I keep searching for that magic fix, that magic comfort that destination where I feel I can be myself.
The version of myself that I could have been if I didn’t mould myself into the spaces and constrictions that others made around me.