1163. I am running short of reasons to stay alive for any longer.
And like most misery, it started with apparent happiness.
I just had a terribly awful year. The kind where you think you have seen the bottom of humanity and the pit just keeps getting deeper. Because it is still there, it always has been. It always will be. You might keep trying to ignore it or silence it but how many echoes can you possibly shun? It is a colossal mess of things in the back of my head refusing to be put out, irks me off to an extent I feel like grabbing the nearest blade and slitting my throat. I can’t function properly with even a single thing fails to align to the narrative, even if it may be the most insignificant detail in the whole damn universe. I can’t think straight until every one of these myopic issues have been resolved.
I fail to see any resolve because the time ahead is not expected to be any different from the one past me.
A string of events had me thinking it is better to walk away than try to make a difference in most cases. And I just can not live the same certain way I used to. I soon decided to quit most of the things that I liked, chose to live a life of seclusion and isolation or maybe was forced into, there is a lack of clarity when you begin recalling things from a past perfect point of view.
I quit writing and publishing here because hardly anyone fucking bothers to read it. Moreover I’ve lost the will to write because I’m unable to derive pleasure out of it like I used to, primarily because I’ve forgotten how to function normally. Everything seems so difficult, every activity takes so much effort, things used to be easier, I have a hard time breathing, inhaling is so tough.
Remorse takes a toll on you, and even further when it’s unrequited. The last time I remember being fine was about three years ago, when things were close to normal and I could remember myself waking up everyday with something to look forward to. That was the only time I could say I am doing good because I knew in that moment that I really was doing good, but nothing has been the same since.
What I publish here is categorized under fiction, but you might have guessed. It really isn’t all that hard to predict if you’ve been around me for long enough. Everything is a part of the narrative, a part of reality. Nothing ever is truly fiction. There is always some sentence, some word screaming out of the paragraph, waiting to be read and paid attention upon, waiting for you to spend more than a split second on it and think.
Think about things you know, and connect them. There are words that scream, come save me, but too bad, maybe it is too subtle, or maybe people don’t want to hear it, or maybe they do and they don’t want to believe that it is true. Because that’s how people function isn’t it? Make yourself believe what is easy and comfortable rather than put an effort to actually understand things worth substance.
On most days, I used to think it’s just an unusual vague feeling when I can not sleep and it will go away by the time I’m done counting sheep, but I’ve spent every single night these three years wanting to kill myself. Sometimes it is so overwhelming that it directly affects my existence in the outside world. It has become a constant state of being, I can’t dissociate myself with this idea. The escalation recently is problematic because it is affecting my ability to separate the existential crisis and my daily life where I try my best to be as close to a regular person. Thanks to disorders that I refuse to accept, problems that I choose to neglect and crisis that I fail to address, I think it is about time for the days to come to an end because frankly, there’s hardly any sense in taking this wasteful existence forward.
The headache is beyond an ache, a bullet through my head would make it so much easier. No more throbbing veins, no more crisis, no more staring down the wall hoping it swallows you, no more looking across the room wishing you were there, no more pondering down the balcony waiting to be pushed, no more looking into the mirror and not finding myself there, no more shooting up syringes trusting it to overdose, no more pain in my chest when I attempt to smile, no more.
Believe me, I only wish to succumb to normalcy but with everything going with me and around me, I just can’t.
I have tried my best to stay tranquil and maintain the sanctity of people around me but all I can seem to do is pile misery upon misery, and then pile another misery on top of it. Why? Because I’m a consistent motherfucker.
I don’t wish to die with all my life, but I don’t with to live with half my life either. There is something, holding me back, everytime, blocking me right before the tipping point.
If you’re in some corner of the world and you’re reading this, I just want to let you know that I’m not fine. I am struggling to survive. I’m unable to live. I’m dying, you just haven’t noticed it yet.