
My stupid therapist convinced me to turn in my hoard of pills. I hate her. I wanted them there "just in case," but she said I cannot have a life worth living if suicide is always an option. The door is always there and I was standing on the doorstep wanting to walk through. Not that there aren't a million other ways to kill yourself, but it was the symbolism of it.
I have the worst headache, my back hurts, my wrist hurts where I broke it three years ago, my stomach hurts, and I feel like throwing up. I am not happy. To say the least. I hate my therapist right now. So much.
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Don't make me talk to myself, yo.