“Suffering doesn’t concern itself with the scale of other sufferings. It has no community sense. It isn’t relative, is it.”
I seek help. Not from humans, not now (I tried, but the shame felt from having to annoy others, tell them I need help, is too much. For now I will stick with pride and faked stoicism.). But from this page, from the act of typing honestly, and with shameless despair.
I have reached rock bottom. A phrase that always annoyed me purely because of it propensity to be said falsely and often. What I didn’t know about rock bottom though, was that gravity naturally ‘wants’ objects to be there. Objects are not at rest until they reach it. While yes, technically the only way, I guess, is up, but it is hard to see this mythical ‘up’ when things keep landing on my face. And it hurts. The initial impacts jars and sets my stomach unstable, fills it with nuclear goo. Then there is pain, as if a poker left in the fire too long has been sent down my throat to shred the lining of my throat, and yanked quickly out, ‘un-zipping’ what is left of my swallower with its barb. My heart pumps to fast, then too slow, sometimes it seems to stop and fill itself with lead. Then my head seems to take over the pumping job, not realising it lacks the equipment, and beats its contents furiously against my scalp and face. And, ofcourse, comes the void, the gap expanding against my ribs, creating universes and galaxies inside my chest without consideration or my consent. My leg throbs and boils and freezes all at once, and its bones turn to icy glass.
I can’t sleep either, I yearn to be somewhere else. I know also that no matter my geography I will still want to be somewhere else. I am worried to unbalance, constantly, that maybe this is the one, this is the depression of which I will not come out. And yes, yes, I know Milton, I heard you, “the night is darkest before the dawn”, but it is only true in retrospect, only true when viewed from the light. So I ‘see’ nothing, I ‘see’ only the inside of my forehead, my rotting degraded vile forehead. I am losing my way, my thoughts have no regards for themselves, and they barely bother to exist for very long, and proceed straight to annihilation without checking themselves into memory for storage.
And I don’t even hate myself! I have so much to say, so much unused love. And yet who will put up with me? I am fucking unbearable at times, I must be. All this wit, all this intelligence, it is lost on me, I am not the proper vessel for such gifts, they only aid to clear and focus my insight, to make it quite clear that all this suffering is quite pointless. I don’t fear death, but I certainly fear dying; all the vomit and the ugliness of self-slaughter, or the bloody stain on the train-driver’s windscreen, the sound of crushing and the body in shapes not intended. ‘Tis all so vulgar and humanless. It brings such shame to consider being ‘found’, it is ominously called, by someone not willing to see. Like the elephant, I am always considering cutting all ties, wandering away to be unseen.
And it’s not that I want to die, I’m just not that fond of all this living lark. It’s too too pointless.