as i cut open a montréal bagel with probably the wrong knife and think of how i talked about bagels with three different people yesterday, i remember that was the year i actually made bagels, for you, for your birthday.
funny how those things go.
when i try to write, i cannot write what i want. when i think of one thought or memory, suddenly, the words come. i inhale.
you told me recently in our first real talk i’d say since we broke up that you didn’t want that to be your place in my story, where that is just another guy who fucked me over and left me for dead. at one point, it seemed like you could have been. but, no. last night i thought of writing, i’m not an ex you should be friends with, but then i realised that you and i were— are?, i don’t know— friends.
i am unsure of where i fit in the universe. a year and a half ago i knew so sure yet i hated where i was and didn’t want to move. a year and a half ago i was terrified of making bots. terrified of coding, and terrified of men. i’m still terrified of men and i’m still terrified of coding, but i’m a little less terrified of making bots.
or so i’d like to think.
“102715.txt” — 27 october 2015, 3:10am (which time zone? i was in montréal when i wrote this, i think — but that doesn't tell me which time zone this timestamp is in)
in may for a weekend i didn't sleep. it was a holiday weekend. i remember snapchatting myself buying groceries— nothing but sorbet, i think. and sparkling clementine juice. and the fact that i ran out of gas and my ex watched that snapchat before i realised snapchat tells you who watched your snapchat. and now we're friends again so i don't really want to just call him “my ex” anymore because it places him in the category of so many shitty people, and in comparison, he was never that bad.
i probably almost died that night.
it's been hard for me to want to live this year (last year) (the year before) (and the...)
but especially this year.
i told someone recently if i could have been not-suicidal, i would have been.
who chooses to feel like shit? no one. absolutely no one.
telling someone depression is in their control is like blaming terminally ill patients for their more physical illness
tonight i feel like being self-destructive. at one point i stopped hurting myself with my own hands or body and started hurting myself using other people, which is arguably better and worse. better because you can blame someone else for it; worse because you harm not just one, but two humans in the process.
but i won't.
*i now disagree that people can “use other people” to hurt themselves. this was a way for me to blame myself for others abusing me, and to blame myself for me “choosing” them. — 2022 april 22, 3:18am