Yesterday. I woke up at about 2:30 am to check the election results. I’d gone to bed the night before knowing very well who would win the election, but even then, I had to know for sure. I had to be completely certain because there was so much hinging on the result. I’d taken three times the dose of melatonin I’d usually take to knock myself out cold, and still I woke up two hours into the night because my anxiety was through the roof.
I barely wrote yesterday. I distanced myself from social media. I skipped class because I couldn’t bare to be face-to-face with a professor who’d so casually dismissed a Klan member’s racism some classes before. I’ve avoided using “certain names” in my posts because I just got over a bout of trolls and am not in the mood to do it again.
But in all of this, I think the thing I hated the most was the sudden, desperate need to end it all. I haven’t had the urge in a while, and definitely not like this, but it was there because for the first time since I left home, I honestly couldn’t see an out. This was it. It was over.