I Knew I Was Done

At 28 years old, I knew I was done. It was the morning after my birthday and I was hung over and beat up from the night before, having vomited several times and gotten my butt kicked outside of a bar (that had never happened before). The acute suicidal thoughts of the past months (or was it years?) had not gone away. I was still me—meaning not great. The world was still the world—meaning even worse.