gingerplum
Enlightened
- Nov 5, 2018
- 1,450
Sometimes I try to write what I'm feeling. I've never shared it, and mostly I think it's just sort of overblown, self-absorbed, and not very good. But it is honest. Anyway. Not really looking for feedback, just wanted to share, maybe see if anyone finds it relatable.
My tongue is numb today. It's better, but still slightly numb. I did some kind of nerve damage to it when I was practicing hanging myself a few days ago. Scarves and ties will work-- at least theoretically-- but Robin Williams apparently had it right with a belt. Alexander McQueen, L'Wren Scott, and Anthony Bourdain all managed to pull it off with a scarf or a tie, but it turns out a belt is much better to get the compression right.
The door gave way when I leaned against it. Lesson learned; the latch has to click into place. Like anything worth doing right, it takes a little practice, and preparation. I briefly lost consciousness. I remember stars. The numbness and sibilant "s" I now have to focus to overcome remind me of my effort; not so much a failure as an almost victory.
It takes a great deal of strength to face the nights when you're depressed, and lonely. Or maybe it's less strength, and more a grim resignation. The darkness becomes the physical embodiment of sadness. When it closes around me the sadness is even heavier, and I feel it like a weight on my chest. The light of morning is maybe even worse. The shards of pain are brighter, sharper, more crystallized, yes. Brought into razor-sharp clarity. But mostly the light is a reminder that before long, the light will slip away again into the dark, where the pain is infinite, boundless, and staggeringly complete.
When I stir in the night, even before I'm fully conscious, my first thoughts are swimming, dreamlike, but always "no". Oh no, I think. Please no. Make it stop. The tears course down my face like the waves of sadness that wash over me, again and again, unrelenting and unstoppable. They run down, and back, and spill into the matted hair around my neck. I lay in the dark, tiny lachrymose pools forming around me, and I pray, grasp and struggle to return to the release of unconsciousness, the bliss that unawareness will bring. If only for another minute; please just make it stop again.
Please just make it fucking stop.
My tongue is numb today. It's better, but still slightly numb. I did some kind of nerve damage to it when I was practicing hanging myself a few days ago. Scarves and ties will work-- at least theoretically-- but Robin Williams apparently had it right with a belt. Alexander McQueen, L'Wren Scott, and Anthony Bourdain all managed to pull it off with a scarf or a tie, but it turns out a belt is much better to get the compression right.
The door gave way when I leaned against it. Lesson learned; the latch has to click into place. Like anything worth doing right, it takes a little practice, and preparation. I briefly lost consciousness. I remember stars. The numbness and sibilant "s" I now have to focus to overcome remind me of my effort; not so much a failure as an almost victory.
It takes a great deal of strength to face the nights when you're depressed, and lonely. Or maybe it's less strength, and more a grim resignation. The darkness becomes the physical embodiment of sadness. When it closes around me the sadness is even heavier, and I feel it like a weight on my chest. The light of morning is maybe even worse. The shards of pain are brighter, sharper, more crystallized, yes. Brought into razor-sharp clarity. But mostly the light is a reminder that before long, the light will slip away again into the dark, where the pain is infinite, boundless, and staggeringly complete.
When I stir in the night, even before I'm fully conscious, my first thoughts are swimming, dreamlike, but always "no". Oh no, I think. Please no. Make it stop. The tears course down my face like the waves of sadness that wash over me, again and again, unrelenting and unstoppable. They run down, and back, and spill into the matted hair around my neck. I lay in the dark, tiny lachrymose pools forming around me, and I pray, grasp and struggle to return to the release of unconsciousness, the bliss that unawareness will bring. If only for another minute; please just make it stop again.
Please just make it fucking stop.
