Once, we were getting ready for a party. You bought three ties with you, because you didn’t know which one would match my dress. You left the ties here. A few weeks later, after we had separated, I asked you to come and collect your ties. You said “Forget about it, I don’t really need them.” I begged you to come and take them away, not because they reminded me of you, or because I wanted to see you, but because I was scared I would try to hang myself using one of them. You came to collect them, and I was safe again.
Now, after having a clear out, I have become faced with yet another suicidal irony.
It is ironic that all I have left of you in this tiny room is your box of expensive razor blades, and the reason that you left me is because I’m mentally ill and partial to self-harm. You have given me my daily laugh and you don’t even know it. “You’ve got to laugh, otherwise you’ll cry.”
P.S. You leaving me has made me more determined with Recovery than ever before.
P.P.S. I am going to throw your extortionately priced and extremely sharp razor blades in the bin.
P.P.P.S. F*ck you.