Writing is my "Therapy"

I threw up on Sunday. I wasn't sick or anything. Dad asked me if I was.

I was just anxious. "Just" anxious. I don't think that word works, but I wrote it anyway.

I didn't really get to that point in my spiralling until I had my suicidal ideations.

A doctor told me it wasn't bad enough for me to worry too much about. I'm not going to do it, but what if I did, just to spite them all?

I kept thinking I am loved. I am loved. And yes, I feel loved frequently, but not enough.

"I was loved, but not enough." Stupidest suicide note ever.