I always remember what Liz said when I told her about all the ways I'd thought about killing myself. If jumped out a window or in front of a car, had I thought about how it could just leave me paralysed rather than end in my death.
I remember the emotion in her eyes when she told me she wasn't sure how to help me and we should talk about medication. I remember the fury on my mother's face when I told her. I remember the look Liz gave me when I returned and told her I felt much better, and wouldn't need her sessions anymore.
I remember the concern on the psychologists face on my second admission to the hospital after self harming, where he told me I had deep psychological problems.
I remember the blood that ran down my arm. I remember the hatred in my eyes when I looked in the mirror. I remember the disgust, and the disbelief and the soul crushing need to harm my being.
I remember the feeling as the tears ran down my face, the sound of them hitting the duvet repeatedly as I silently cried out for some kind of release, for some kind of help, for someone to talk to.
I remember lying awake at night with a pounding headache because I'd cried so hard, until I'd run out of tears.
I think about who might come to my funeral, and I come up short.
I remember so much pain.
I remember.
Until I don't anymore.
