In the past week has come the shocking news that Paris Jackson tried to commit suicide. What do you say if discussing it when someone asks what would drive people to that, when you've been there? The thoughts that run through your head, the planning, even if the eventual execution never takes place. When you look at a bottle of pills and wonder if you took enough if you'd just drift off to sleep and not wake up; when you wonder if it's possible to learn how to tie a noose and hang yourself off of the rafters in your garage; wondering how much damage jumping off of the roof would do (probably not a lot); knowing how easy it would be to jump in front of traffic. All of these thoughts have crossed my mind at one time or another, and I can't say that one specific thing made me think it. I could point to a list of things that get me down; I could sit here and give you a 'woe-is-me' tale of my childhood, right through to adulthood, making pit stops at all the upsetting and frustrating situations that have made me who I am today. I could show you the countless scars that mark my body, all brought about by own hand, that are daily reminders of how miserable I can be, how miserable I sometimes am.
I would like to be able to say that I never cut anymore, that I never think about cutting anymore. I would like to, but it would be a lie. It is a daily struggle to not pick up the razor blade and press in to my skin until the oozing red liquid comes out. The release it gives is like washing my mind of it's problems, all be it temporarily, and the satisfaction of not being in emotional pain, for however brief a time, makes the scars worthwhile. I look at the scars on my arm often. I reflect back on the pain that I was in to mark my skin in such a way that is marred with both fondness and forlornness. The most visible of scars are well healed now but that does not prevent me from trying to hide them. The looks you get from people that notice them are those of pity, shock, disgust and confusion. They want explanations, they need rationale to digest what they have realised, but how can you give this to people when you can't recall the exact thing that made you slice your arm open in the first place? When you can't explain the release, the goodness, the pure feeling of just being when you do it. It's almost like a reminder that you're alive and you just need to get something, anything out. Letting go of the blood is much quicker, and easier, than letting go of the thoughts that plague you. It's hard to explain to people who've never been there, never wrestled with the razor, with the voices telling you to do it and with those telling you not to, why you do it. How there's no real pain - it's so instantaneous that it doesn't register - and how it makes you feel better. It's a contradiction of it's simplest form - harming yourself makes you feel better. How does that make sense? It doesn't. But neither does the dark thoughts, the misery, the sheer pain, the wanting to rip your heart out just to make the pain stop.
All the scars and the misery makes it appear as though I hate life. I don't. I love life. I have a passion for exploration of the abandoned, travelling far and wide, music, rugby league, ice hockey, escaping to another world in a good novel, photography, nature and animals. I am constantly amazed by the wonders our world has to offer, at the same time as being scared because I know there will never be enough time for me to see all I want to see and do all I want to do. I don't want to settle for the life I currently have. I want to dream big and explore and discover. But I can't help the way I feel, and there are often days I don't want to get out of bed, I don't want to get dressed, I don't want to live. I don't want to speak or see people and I just want to lose myself in another world where the pain doesn't exist. I want to hide from reality and not deal with the aching void that consumes the space where my heart should be. But I make myself, I have to make myself, because if I don't get up today, there may be no getting up tomorrow, and that would be another day of amazement that I would have missed. It is just hard to rationalise the sheer marvel I have for our world with the torment that takes place in my head and the aching in my heart.
I hope no-one ever has to feel so low that they are desperately clinging to life, holding on to every single minute sliver of joy; holding it tight and using it to fuel their mere existence. Suicide is the very last resort for anyone, and for those that don't understand what it takes to get to that point where you think that you have no alternative, I am sorry; I can offer no explanation as to why some people get to that point - there isn't one. There can be numerous reasons and none that can be put in to words, but you will never be able to make them understand fully if they have never been there themselves.
Events this year have made me look back and examine numerous friendships over the years. I think back on all of the things I've done for other people and how it just seems like it constantly gets thrown back in my face. I don't believe I'm high maintenance, I don't ask a lot of my friends and yet somehow, I'm the one who is always made to feel like I've done wrong by them. It would be nice sometimes if I could just feel like I was worthy of friendship. Instead, I'm made to feel unimportant, disposable, a nuisance. It would be nice if the same loyalty I offered to them was returned to me. I am not loyal for loyalty in return, but it would be nice to know that I am appreciated and wanted/needed. I will not stop being loyal to those who are there for me when I need them, but I refuse to be trampled over anymore. I have been hurt too many times in the past that I would rather be alone than in a friendship where I am neither appreciated nor valued.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
- Follow Me on Twitter!
- "Join Me on Facebook!
- RSS
Contact