life after suicide: day 357

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👇🏿 ain’t got no time for that? press play for the radical radio recording ✨


dear red star riser, you are about to read a journal entry from my life after suicide experience. thank you for holding her in your tender, loving kindness.

february 15, 2018

i was, one month ago, packing up sorting and releasing yet again another round of things from my life. the day i packed up to move out of mothers house in bc. and now? one month later, i find myself in another house, one i’m renting a room in, settling in, ‘set up again’ per se. only a few more piles and things to deal with and then i’m settled. (physically at least.)

i spent the last two weeks getting settled in my new-to-me-room: errands, shopping, painting, fixing, building, assembling. all of these things into my space. and now, today was a day off. i spent it on the couch not moving much. and… and it was just the thing. i spent thirteen hours in bed last night.

i’m tired. thinking of all of what has happened in the last eleven months makes me tired. even thinking on what mother did in january makes me tired. blahgh…

other things: it’s the one year anniversary of ritchie’s death next friday. i will be taking off now until the end of the month… or march 3rd… or… ? though taking time off from running around to just be feels good. i do want to do things like clean and get thru my piles, though that will be interspersed with my healing for me activities.

and in most all things, i don’t know. i don’t know what the future holds for me any longer. i don’t know. the money i’m spending is tallying up and my feelings of anger towards mother are following suit. she text happy vday yesterday. not today, mother. no.

i don’t know. i thought maybe i’d feel different right now, on being set up here. surprise. i don’t. and perhaps this goal of getting my piles “sorted” is elusive as well? as in: won’t produce those same results? though it does give me something to “work” towards. shrugs shoulders

so here i lie. in this new space, with the future unknown. and isn’t this truly what all of life is? a future of unknowns? with supposed ‘knowns’, which turn into surprises, delights, or traumas, and earth shattering depressions? shrugs

in any case, keep moving forward i will.

i have to.

my life depends on it.

xxo ~k 😞

☾ᐧ post script context ᐧ☽

this is four weeks after i’m given the great invitation by mother to, essentially, gtfo. (that’s short for get the fuck out: out of her home, out of working for her.) the invitation begins another round of “drownings” in my life that are, at the time, unforgiving, immediate, soul-crushing. the invitation comes only eleven months after my dad kills himself and i find him.

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