i walk around days & nites having meaningless conversations, brief interlapses of contentment. but on the whole there is nothing here. my life has become this giant, empty space where i make up reasons to keep on breathing. last week my therapist asked me if i still wanted to kill myself. & i said of course. she asked me how often do i think about it. i said everyday, all day. then she said well would you do it, or are you just thinking about it. & i said (because i didn't want her to throw me in an institution & maybe it's a little true) no, i won't do it, i just think about it. maybe when i'm older, say 30 or 40.
& in my mind this sounded perfectly rational. because really, i believe i can handle this life, atleast until then. i mean there are probably a few more things i have to live for. but by that time, it will all really be pointless.
so she says to me, 'dena, you sound like a cheap novel.' what could i do except laugh? that is not my intention, believe me. it saddens me to know that anyone would think that about me. because of all the things that i ever wanted to be or to do, sounding like a cheap novel is not one of them.