I’ve had more than one low moment.

When I was fourteen or fifteen I spent almost every day fantasizing about death and dying. I dreamt of getting the courage to swallow all of the Vicodin we had in the bathroom cabinet from my mom’s surgery. I disassociated and wanted to die. I would go to school, come home, go right to bed, and repeat. That’s it.

When I was 18, it didn’t seem so bad. I was social and friendly and more outgoing. I seemed confident for the most part. I didn’t fantasize about death so much. But I’d come home on lunch break to cut myself because it was the only way to get through my day. I didn’t sleep. I was bubbly and happy and upbeat while out and would come home and cry for hours. I barely ate. But I showered every day and shaved every day and put on full makeup every day and I’m sure many people would think those were my best times.

I’m kinda convinced I was worse at 18 than I was at 14/15. But nobody else would ever think that. Guess it just goes to show that you never know what’s going on with a person.