They terrified me. Then one day it was as if they had become normal. I would cross the street slower even though I knew a car wouldn’t hit me. But it was almost a nice thought that someone might because I knew I couldn’t hurt myself. I was too weak for that. Then there were the nights when I had scissors and my wrists ached as if they wanted me to do it. But again, I couldn’t. Who would find me? When would they find me? Would they have had any idea what happened or why? One morning, making breakfast, i have this sudden urge to throw a knife away. And I did too. Because it was there again. The fear. Before it was thoughts but now there was some sort of tangible reality to it. Like I was 1 bad day away. So I sent an email and made an appointment. Luckily I’m a student and this was sorted within days. I told 1 person and lied to another 12. Said to myself that I would tell people after, once I knew what was wrong. But that didn’t happen. And it wasn’t because there’s a stigma. We talk about dark things in our line of study. I don’t want them to know. I like that they know the version of me that they do. He smiles and tells bad jokes and he seems sure of himself. He isn’t scared or sad or lonely. So I’ve kept it all to myself now for 2 and a half weeks. But I felt like sharing something because the worst thing is feeling like I’m weird or different for having bad thoughts or for feeling alone or for feeling like I don’t belong. So I’m making this a space to vent. A space to write the things I think that I could never say aloud. Maybe you’ll read this and realise it isn’t just you.

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