SterileMoth
Who knows man
- Jul 9, 2020
- 74
I've been thinking about writing for a while now, so here it is. Not really a story, but not sure what else to call it. It felt more creative than others.
The worst part about wanting to die, is the part where you keep on living. Where the desire to stop right where you are and collapse on the ground in a heap until the world stops turning and you can breathe your last breath is insurmountable, but you keep on walking and smiling and acting as if everything is normal. It's not actually that hard to tell someone you want to die, you get used to it. They get used to it. It's just another thing you say. Doctors of course will have to ask,
"Are you suicidal right now? Do you have a plan?" How do you respond to that?
"I want to die, but I'm not actually going to kill myself right now. I think about it every day, all day. It's like having a parasite under my skin. I can see it squirming, but I can't do anything about it except tell people it's there because no one notices until I point it out." Then because getting rid of the parasite would kill me too, I just have to live with it. I just have to hope that someone else will know how to quiet it down, so that it bores into my arm a little less, so it doesn't hurt quite as much.
"Throw medication at the parasite, maybe then it will go away!"
"No, just think about how grateful you are to be living despite the parasite."
"Correction! You need both! Then you will finally be happy!"
I devour media about the sad and broken as if it was oxygen. Self help books, stories about the suicidal and the self harmers, videos, songs, anything that makes me feel understood. Anything that will make me feel less alone, especially when they don't follow the 'hope' model. Especially when things are still messed up at the end, maybe they're better off but they aren't better. That's how it feels, I gain an inch against the thrashing, gnawing parasite, and it's a celebration. I ate, I brushed my teeth, I didn't self harm even though everything in me just wanted to stare into my inner workings for a second. If a movie shows me that, then I know it's true. If a book talks about the darkest moments, dissects the inner workings of a sad mind, and in the end they still die despite trying so hard for years, I understand. Give me grim hope, something I can actually hold onto, not the shining trophy at the end that I can't even see, let alone imagine, ever possessing. I know things won't be better anytime soon, maybe not ever, don't just tell me it's easy.
Wanting to die, but choosing to live anyway, is like crawling through mud and watching everyone else walk with ease. Some of them even float, they don't touch the sludge below, they don't even know you exist down here with dirt up your nose and in your lungs. Sometimes I hate them, for they have an abundance of what I do not and most aren't even aware of it. Sometimes I pity them, for they will never be able to connect to what so many of us have at least tasted. Most of the time I hate them though, it's not fair that I should be choking on my own thoughts while they pay no mind. I am eternally exhausted from trying to live, from fighting the quicksand-like mud that is my brain, the thoughts that quickly spiral out of control and swallow me up. Starting off the day feeling 50% at the most while everyone else has the energy to complete everything they want, it's so frustrating watching people shoot ahead in life with ease, while you're left to struggle in the mud.
That is where I am right now, in the mud. And no one tells you:
"You might be in the mud for a very long time, you might stand up one day, just to find yourself face first in it the next day. It's going to suck, it's going to hurt, and that parasite will just get bigger and bigger, while everyone else yells 'STAY'."
Or:
"Sometimes someone might come along and help you stand, they'll walk with you on the days all you can do is crawl, and they'll smile every time they get to see your face. Then they'll leave, and there will be no reason for it, but suddenly you'll be alone in the mud again and everyone will still expect you to stay."
They all tell you false hopes and joys beyond your imagination, that one day you will wake up beside the person you love and this one won't leave you, or that one day you'll be better and you'll be able to work and still see your friends and that you won't even need medication anymore because everything is just so so good. So you wonder when that part will happen, when you will finally be okay, normal, fixed, but no one can tell you. They can only tell you to keep going because they are SURE one day you will be so grateful to be alive, even though right now you are in the mud and there's a parasite in your arm and you can't fucking breathe because the dirt went down your lungs.
"You'll be okay."
Pff-shaw. Maybe I'll finally brush my teeth tomorrow. That's the highest I can hope for. I'm too weighed down to do much more. Don't act like I'm one step away from peace, killing yourself isn't that easy, and living is far from peaceful.
The worst part about wanting to die, is the part where you keep on living. Where the desire to stop right where you are and collapse on the ground in a heap until the world stops turning and you can breathe your last breath is insurmountable, but you keep on walking and smiling and acting as if everything is normal. It's not actually that hard to tell someone you want to die, you get used to it. They get used to it. It's just another thing you say. Doctors of course will have to ask,
"Are you suicidal right now? Do you have a plan?" How do you respond to that?
"I want to die, but I'm not actually going to kill myself right now. I think about it every day, all day. It's like having a parasite under my skin. I can see it squirming, but I can't do anything about it except tell people it's there because no one notices until I point it out." Then because getting rid of the parasite would kill me too, I just have to live with it. I just have to hope that someone else will know how to quiet it down, so that it bores into my arm a little less, so it doesn't hurt quite as much.
"Throw medication at the parasite, maybe then it will go away!"
"No, just think about how grateful you are to be living despite the parasite."
"Correction! You need both! Then you will finally be happy!"
I devour media about the sad and broken as if it was oxygen. Self help books, stories about the suicidal and the self harmers, videos, songs, anything that makes me feel understood. Anything that will make me feel less alone, especially when they don't follow the 'hope' model. Especially when things are still messed up at the end, maybe they're better off but they aren't better. That's how it feels, I gain an inch against the thrashing, gnawing parasite, and it's a celebration. I ate, I brushed my teeth, I didn't self harm even though everything in me just wanted to stare into my inner workings for a second. If a movie shows me that, then I know it's true. If a book talks about the darkest moments, dissects the inner workings of a sad mind, and in the end they still die despite trying so hard for years, I understand. Give me grim hope, something I can actually hold onto, not the shining trophy at the end that I can't even see, let alone imagine, ever possessing. I know things won't be better anytime soon, maybe not ever, don't just tell me it's easy.
Wanting to die, but choosing to live anyway, is like crawling through mud and watching everyone else walk with ease. Some of them even float, they don't touch the sludge below, they don't even know you exist down here with dirt up your nose and in your lungs. Sometimes I hate them, for they have an abundance of what I do not and most aren't even aware of it. Sometimes I pity them, for they will never be able to connect to what so many of us have at least tasted. Most of the time I hate them though, it's not fair that I should be choking on my own thoughts while they pay no mind. I am eternally exhausted from trying to live, from fighting the quicksand-like mud that is my brain, the thoughts that quickly spiral out of control and swallow me up. Starting off the day feeling 50% at the most while everyone else has the energy to complete everything they want, it's so frustrating watching people shoot ahead in life with ease, while you're left to struggle in the mud.
That is where I am right now, in the mud. And no one tells you:
"You might be in the mud for a very long time, you might stand up one day, just to find yourself face first in it the next day. It's going to suck, it's going to hurt, and that parasite will just get bigger and bigger, while everyone else yells 'STAY'."
Or:
"Sometimes someone might come along and help you stand, they'll walk with you on the days all you can do is crawl, and they'll smile every time they get to see your face. Then they'll leave, and there will be no reason for it, but suddenly you'll be alone in the mud again and everyone will still expect you to stay."
They all tell you false hopes and joys beyond your imagination, that one day you will wake up beside the person you love and this one won't leave you, or that one day you'll be better and you'll be able to work and still see your friends and that you won't even need medication anymore because everything is just so so good. So you wonder when that part will happen, when you will finally be okay, normal, fixed, but no one can tell you. They can only tell you to keep going because they are SURE one day you will be so grateful to be alive, even though right now you are in the mud and there's a parasite in your arm and you can't fucking breathe because the dirt went down your lungs.
"You'll be okay."
Pff-shaw. Maybe I'll finally brush my teeth tomorrow. That's the highest I can hope for. I'm too weighed down to do much more. Don't act like I'm one step away from peace, killing yourself isn't that easy, and living is far from peaceful.
