I wish there was a way I could tell the truth without upsetting you. I wish I could confess just how dark my thoughts can get, that I have planned suicides too innumerable to keep count of, that I carry a razor everywhere with me (packing checks now go: passport, ticket, money, razor), that there are times when I feel envious of people who’ve died. Always, given the choice, I would choose non-existence.
Every now and then I think I’m getting better; of course, I’m fooling myself. I wish I could tell you everything and that it wouldn’t play on your mind, worry you, burden or bore you.
But I can’t. My brain alone gets eaten.