It is all really heavy, and the thoughts of going away get a bit louder: waking up, in the mirror, driving, during the mundane moments—it consumes me. What I have been doing has not sustained me. This turn of events is crippling. I have come too far to only come this far, yet this far in comparison to what would have been is paralyzing.
The tears struggle to have a voice. It comes in waves, my body chooses to shut it away. It feels like a show. The self harm in ways that are not tangible, while relinquishing inflictions to the physical: the scares, the deaths, the losses, the memories. Others see me in ways I can’t understand. I see myself in varying degrees, a tide that crashes on a polluted shore. I crave to be held, to be loved. To not be believed and received, to not heal for myself to foster something healthy—it is to my demise.
This form of writing seems like a note, penning down the road of expression I have not been able to convey formally in months. Or maybe, I simply would rather not see what I have to say for myself.
I have known better. Doing better is met with the audacity of shedding a skin that has been outgrown: the sentiment of bird staying still and idle in a perpetually collapsing tree. To soar and fly, integrate and connect, concepts that sound audacious and different from what I choose. To be or not to be has been a questionable situation that some would dare call a testimony. I fail to see it as such due to my disgrace. The act of being kinder and nicer to self is not instilled in me subconsciously from the childhood therapy sessions. I come to find peace in questioning myself and consuming what I knew to be from a place of solace. Are these words something nonsensical, a tangent of nonsense? Is freely going about these thoughts something safe for words to contain?
The question of me wanting to end my life comes up often, overtly encouraged by myself through the form of jokes. The slick ways of rather wanting those who care to end me before going as far as ending someone else. The idea that me continuing with a rejuvenating sense of life seems like a fairytale. I have gotten too old for things. I created hell too long for that. I cry for versions of me that existed: versions who died on my behalf, that hid, sang, danced, played, created—that wrote the contents of a heart meant for so much more. The highlighted aspects of intelligence and talent are confusing, while the reality of the possible utilization seem inconvenient. To put myself on a pedestal for my own course as an idol, while straying from my own honor can be taken as a joke. To carry something that is undesired inside me with disappointment and shame fills me with tremendous anguish. To know that I am responsible and accountable for the state of being is deafening.
I attend a funeral that has been planned and orchestrated like a play for ages—a chain reaction of consequences reflect brutality that had no other path.
