I stopped writing in this for a while because I felt it was making me feel worse or something. But something really bad happened.

Chris and I were out on a date. It was a nice, formal-casual restaurant if you know what I mean. I was having an okay-night, it was bitter-sweet. We've been dating for like 5 years now, but I just feel so... numb. 

When he smiles, I get a sense of relief. Relief that he's not upset at me.

That's not how things should be. I shouldn't be so fucking terrified of him. I shouldn't feel like I'm walking on eggshells constantly. Every day of my life.

Do something that agitated him? Shoved. Poured the milk before the cereal? A beating, depending on if he's already mad. (But milk first is the only way to pour cereal, just saying)

But back to the date. We were just getting to dessert when he stood. He got down on one knee. I immediately grinned nervously, as I have a really bad smiling problem. I knew what he was going to do, and I didn't want him to do it. I was still conflicted about whether I was going to leave him or not.

But I didn't have enough time to think because he was already proposing.

"Will you marry me?" he had said in a very confident tone. It kinda rubbed me the wrong way.

A few tables who were nearby were now staring at us. Social pressure? Yay for me. But anyway, in that moment I knew I had to break things off with him. So I told him no. He immediately got this look on his face, and I knew if we weren't in public he would've given me a beating I never would forget.

We silently ate our dessert, paid, left, and got home.

He's hurt me worse than he's ever had before. He broke a random glass cup over my head and yelled at me, before shoving me and kicking me a bunch. I stayed quiet. He broke up with me and left the house.

And now here I am, writing in this dumb book and getting my dumb tears all over the pages. He'll probably be back tomorrow or in a few hours to get his things. It hurts. Everything hurts.

My head especially. I should probably have someone make sure glass didn't get into my head or something.

I don't know what I'll do. I don't think I'll be able to eat. Or sleep. Or move, really.

I think I'll stop taking my anti-depressants, just to prevent myself from overdosing.

Maybe I'll take the cyanide pills and end everything. Though, taking one of the knives from the kitchen and stabbing myself would probably be quicker.

Maybe I'll have to stay with Dad or Owen for a bit, so I can't do anything stupid. I really, really, really, want to die, but I really, really, really, don't.

You know?

I sure don't.