A part of suicidal ideation or self harm no one talks about is the numbness to the subject that comes with it. I sit and scroll through pages and pages of cries for help, suicide notes and plans and feel nothing. No worry, no concern, no crushing feeling in my chest. Nothing. Those familiar feelings are now replaced with a strange familiarity, a kind of comfort that it’s not just me.

When you said you felt so comfortable with me, it made me feel pathetic that I was feeling uncomfortable myself. I also wanted to feel comfortable, to feel safe, to speak and laugh, but my words just crumbled in my mouth. Even when I was with you, I was a shadow. A dark, dark thing, stuck to your side, imitating your every move. ‘This is so nice, this is so comfortable,’ you kept saying, and I envied you for it. I wanted to laugh, to be comfortable in my relationship with someone, to be the kind of person who can easily become close to a person they like.