Sunday, July 23, 2017

Rough Night

About how many times a day do you think one person contemplates about ending their life? About how many times a day do you think someone stares at a knife that's pointed to their pulsing blue veins on their wrists? About how many times a day do you think someone actually does it and whether or not this someone wakes up in a hospital bed or not wake up at all ... about how many times do you think any of these happens? 

I can go and research statistics for you, if I were so inclined to do so, but the reason why I'm asking is because I thought about it just minutes ago in the shower. While I was under a barrage of constant water pouring out of shower head, I thought about it. I looked down at my wrists and saw its pulsing blue veins against my pale yellow skin and thought how it would look like if red suddenly came pouring out and trickled down my hands that were against my chest and how the water would dilute its redness into a pinkish tone. I thought about how he would find me and without a moment's hesitation try to do anything in the attempt to save the life that was literally escaping me. I thought oh shit, this is really happening when in reality, it wasn't. 

There are no tell-tale cuts on my skin. Just a really, really blue vein on both my left and right wrists, taunting me that they are indeed right here, waiting for something to happen to them.

The sight of blood excites/fascinates and appalls me all at the same time. If it was my blood trickling out, I honestly would faint from it all. However, I'd  probably slip into a fantasy world where I would still be contemplating my inevitable end. 

I have had rough nights. Rough nights where I wished I wasn't a coward and actually did what I thought of in my head: where the betraying knife actually sliced through and I would have felt that split indecision that I shouldn't have done it but since I started, might as well finish... where I'm laying in the tub with a half cocked gun ready to put a permanent hole ...where the doors were left unlocked to the house unbeknownst to me and a drugged out burglar would come in and accidentally kill me because I spooked him because I came out of my hiding place ... I have these thoughts and there's no point in lying but I am ready to die. 

The world would go on with or without me and I would prefer if I weren't among the living anymore because I don't feel alive. I know I don't feel alive. I feel as if I'm just here. Doing absolutely nothing and just taking precious breaths that someone more worthy could. 

I look out the window and see the nation's flag sway gently with the wind. This may be the land of the free, but it is not. Not now. Yes, I have a roof over my head and a vehicle I can drive to and from places. Yes, there's food and water and whatever else a free person might want. But I don't feel free. In fact, I feel shackled to this existence. This isn't where I belong. But if that is the case, where do I go? Where do I go to feel as if I belonged? 

The saying "fake it until you make it" is such a stupid one. We shouldn't even have to do that. But we do. No one person I know is genuinely happy. They might act happy, but no. I don't believe anyone to be happy with their lot in life. Everyone is stuck in a place and I for one would want to know how to be unstuck. I want to feel like the free person I am supposed to be. I want to feel that the world is indeed my oyster. I want to feel anything else but what I'm feeling the last few weeks. 

It's either that or subject myself to oral medication where then everything I feel would be whitewashed and subdued into a subspace of nothingness. I feel too much and I don't have the will to just not care and pretend that I'm okay. Because I know I am not. 

My eyes cannot lie. My words can. My thoughts cannot. My body language is screaming and no one hears. I guess its why I write. Even if my words cannot always tell the truth, there is some truth within the letters, phrases... within the sentences and paragraphs themselves. 

One look at me and you would think oh, she's got it all. 

But I don't have it all. I don't have anything really. I'm just here. Quietly unraveling for all to see but no one really takes it in. No one actually sees that I'm drowning. 

I'm doing my best at threading water. Eventually, my legs will tire and I will go below the surface. 

The only question that remains is when. 

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