On Friday night, an attempt on my own life was interrupted by friends. I’ll spare you the details but the terror was agonising from all sides. It was an uncomfortably close call.

The night was spent in A&E again and, the next evening, I had my third face-to-face encounter with the local crisis team in two weeks. This time things went well. A proper plan was put in place, a change in my medication was encouraged, and access to dialectical behavioural therapy was offered, due to start in less than two weeks.

My friends are refusing to let me be alone for the next few days. I have been told I have no choice in the matter and I am happy to have my time and location dictated by such a loving group of people. I feel awful about it, of course, ashamed, humiliated, but also incredibly grateful.

There are many reasons why I thought Newcastle was the right place to be. As painful as things are right now, this has been confirmed over and over again these past few weeks.

The road to recovery is going to be long. I’m unspeakably daunted by it. And I need to stop pretending this is an appropriate forum for it to take place. Time to retreat again, back into meatspace. The Internet is no place to be.

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