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  • You are concerned; you ask me not to kill myself. That’s kind. I don’t really know how to react, how I’m supposed to react. Other than to say, “OK, fine, I won’t do it.”

    When I told a friend in October that I’ve almost pulled a lights out, she said, “I’d be so mad at you.” That was a first. That got my attention.

    In January, I almost made her mad at me.

    The short list of people who say, “Seriously, call me, any time,” is growing, and I guess that’s supposed to make me feel better. It kind of does, and I don’t have the heart to tell them, “That’s not the point.”

    I tell a story. I disseminate the story. People listen. They say, “Seriously, call me anytime.”

    I want to ask them: don’t you get it? That’s me calling you at 2 a.m. That’s me saying “I’d rather just hear about your day right now,” to keep me from doing what I want to do. That’s me tying a knot, that’s me filling the bathtub as I get my santoku knife, and contacting you instead of climbing in.

    Of course, it wasn’t always like that – I didn’t always know to tell the story. It was me making an actual call to an actual friend. It was me looking at my bloody arm. It was me looking down at the street from the window in the far corner of this photograph. Five floors up – was it enough? I never found out.

    The story itself – that’s my fucken life line. I dress up this beast in pretty clothes and ask it to dance.

    And oh, how it moves when it wants to.
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