This week I'm attributing my depressive state to perioding hormones. Wonderful, beautiful PMS. I verbalised some of the things I was thinking about unknowingly to my mother thinking that somehow that'd be a great outlet of release but she creeped into my room this evening after our conversation in the car, held both my shoulders and said, "whatever the case is, I remembered you cut yourself back in Secondary school and please don't do silly things like that again. Don't make me sad."
I looked away and told her, "ya mum sure, I won't kill myself."
Essentially I don't think I am actually ready to die, neither do I actively find ways to really kill myself besides the small vices here and there. But then why do I make my head such an awful place to be in sometimes? It's all up to perception and maybe I've just been perceiving things wrongly.
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