Today I met a girl who said she had been sexually violated from the age of 8 until she was 17. when she was in grade ten she overdosed on her anti-depressants. She says she woke up in ICU at 4am all alone in the dark. She thought that’s what being dead was. Darkness. Maybe that’s what being dead is. When I think of death I always think of nothingness. I do not know why she was telling me all this. All I wanted from her was a cigarette and random conversation on how shit school was and how the assignment we’re handing in tomorrow was riding the hell out of us. I found myself sharing with her things I do not share with strangers when i’m sober. We compared our therapists and found it disturbing how much information they wrote in our files. I wondered what mine writes. She said the kind of situation she has is the kind one goes to therapy for for a long time. I said the one I have is the kind I try to avoid going to therapy for incase I find myself strapped onto a straight jacket. But I still go. I give up enough information sometimes to not get me into an institution. Other times I let myself go, i empty myself. She said the only people that end up in institutions are those that try to kill themselves. I said I haven’t felt that way in a long time. Suicide is for the courageous. I’m a coward. I’ve never been brave enough to wake up at 4am surrounded by darkness.