There was this story I told myself.  About how maybe it was okay my family kicked me out.  That they chose my brother over me.  That I was made to feel so unlovable. Because I had found community elsewhere.

And now that community is gone. And there's just me. And maybe I will always be unlovable.

Maybe my therapist is not over reacting. Maybe she sees something I don't. If I had the money,  I would go into a hospital. 

 She would say being suicidal was just a matter of fact like having a surname or identifying the color of your skin. It was a thing that was always there but you learned to live with it, or in spite of it. "It's not like I would ever actually do it" she'd say rolling her eyes while I held my breath. 

Being with her was like always holding my breath. Like the time we went on a boat and it moved from underneath me when I was trying to climb off and I almost fell in the water. Like trying to be an anchor for both of us, like struggling to not take on too much water.

I've laid in bed all night and haven't been able to sleep.

I want to erase you from my life because I've never mattered in yours.

I'm doing such a good job of trying to erase everyone from my life.

Weak attempts at connection trail off. There's nothing here to stay for.

I'm trying to be someone who doesn't need. I'm trying to be someone I need.

I missed therapy. 

Depressive episode continues.  But milder than normal.  Medication helps.

I think. 

I have to remember to write when I cry. It helps.  I can sleep now.