There are stretches of time, sometimes extended stretches, when all I can do is get through. I look down at the word tattooed on the inside of my left wrist, “persevere.” I got the tattoo right after I was discharged from the psych hospital four years ago.
I stare at it, sometimes for a very long time, and even then, the feeling of wanting to just go doesn’t abate. “Just get through the day, Coco.
Don’t do anything self-harming or self-sabotaging because you’re worth fighting for,” I tell myself. Again and again. It’s survival mode.
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