You Get These Words Wrong

 
I suffered through a dream the other night where I was welcomed in and accepted by certain people I will never see again for the rest of my life. There was a specific person that was absent in it, which was a blessing really, and I felt so content and relieved to be back in this certain house talking with these certain people as they expressed the same fear that I had - never seeing each other again. I woke up, of course, and it took me a good few hours into my dirge of a morning to remember the dream, to remember the feelings elicited in it within me during those sleeping hours, and realize it was simply all a hypnogogic farce. Reality rushed back into me with a savage gust of power and shattered me. It's been nearly six months and I have no idea how to process any of it any better than I did when it was happening. 

I can't write anymore. Every day is spent in a chemical haze brought on by constantly having to switch medications and suffer through the initial side effects of whatever new drug they throw at me. There are few options left if the drug I'm on now doesn't end up working for me. I could get my brain zapped, or bombarded with magnetic waves or whatever TMS therapy actually entails. At this point, I think the only thing that will truly help would be lobotomy or a total extraction of my brain. It truly seems that, at this point, my nigh constant suicidal thoughts will see no end unless I bring an end upon myself. I can't even think anymore. Every facet of my brain feels like it's fogged up, my creativity smelted down and pouring out of my ears. An unmotivated, uncreative, suicidal husk is all that's left rotting on my thinning shoulders. I simply do not want to be here anymore, and although I have no exit strategy planned out, I can't imagine myself remaining here on this earth for much longer. Someone has reached their hand inside my chest and locked their fingers in my ribcage, entwined in my arteries, pulled me close, and then abruptly yanked as hard as possible and turned me inside out. A negative of everything I once was. Nothing but an ugly, steaming pile of inverted flesh and distended organs coiled up on the dirtied floor. They look down at me in this new state and simply swept all the ugliness, the putrescence of their making, under the floorboards and out of sight. Then they quickly packed up all they had of this life we shared and left behind whatever was mine to be hastily and uncaringly tossed in the trash. I may have been the one who had to move, I may be the one who was forced to leave the life I was trying to build, I may be the one begrudgingly living back in my home country now, but I feel as if my pile of twisted, manipulated, desecrated body parts still rests in those walls, in those floorboards, under the bed we shared, in the black mold lining our bathroom walls, in the orange lights I brought from home decorating our tiny bedroom, in the broken refrigerator, in the radiator that never provided us with any heat, in the constant obnoxious din of passing cars from the main road outside, tangled in the dead tree branches that we watched grow back to life and subsequently die from our bedroom window with the broken shades. I thought I left, I thought I was moving on, but something unseen, unknowable, unidentifiable, unexplainable has thrust me back to that place. I'm banging my skinned fists and scrapping my nailless fingers against the heavy door begging for someone to let me out, begging for someone to open the door and greet me with a release, with forgetfulness, with death. 

That's why I can't stop dreaming of it now. And nothing anyone says to me cuts through. It's a death, it's several deaths I've been forced to deal with. Six months to grieve the loss of several lives - maybe I'm not giving myself enough time. I'll never see these people for the rest of my life. That's it. It's over. I accepted that it's over, I really thought I did, but I don't think I ever will - or won't be able to for an extremely long time. The worst part of it all is that I wish I could be mad about it all, I deserve to be mad, I deserve to feel enormously negative feelings and ill will towards the person that betrayed me so horribly and kicked me out of my own life. But I don't. And I can't. I just feel so immeasurably sad. Disappointment, betrayed, abandoned, confused, gravely hurt, and crushingly sad. But not angry, never angry. And I don't know why. Anger would be easy, anger is felt strongly, and it's hard to control, but it's explosive and cathartic and over with quick. This sadness, these unrequited feelings, this deep treacherous chasm left in my heart lingers and drags me down like a great torrent of tar. And the most idiotic and foolish aspect of this whole emotional bramble of tangled barbed wire stuck in my chest cavity and ripping me to shreds is that, given the opportunity, I would forgive them. I'd forgive them because, despite my confusion, on some level I believe I completely understand their point of view, their struggle, their fear, their self-sabotage, their want to forget and cloud their mind with anything but me. I get it. They did something unforgivable to me, something so uncharacteristically (or at least according to who I thought they were) cold and cruel to me, and yet here I am feeling guilt and worry and not wanting them to feel any sort of hatred towards themselves for it. I want them to be understood, as most people deserve to be. But that's not going to happen. I'm dead to them and that's the way it will remain. How they process any of this is far from my responsibility or my concern and I should leave it all well-enough alone. They won't read this, I doubt they would care. But I understand their decision against me. 

I am a void. That's what she ran away from. A scintillating, reflective void that shone back with all the insurmountable worries and uncertainties of our futures. I was unstable and without help, I was increasingly emotional and running out of ways to help her or myself. I was carrying the full brunt of the responsibilities for both of our lives and willingly taking everything in my hands and within my control and allowing that stress to build and build while there was no support whatsoever from the other side. It was doomed long before it all fell apart, I just couldn't see it. I didn't want to see it. I never put so much of myself into one person before, never felt so much, never wanted so badly to stay alive for the sake of one person, never wanted to actually commit to existence and build a future with one sole individual that I truly felt was my missing half that was cleaved away from me at the start of my "unjustifiable existence". How am I supposed to get over that? The dreams don't stop. The suicidal ideation storms through my head and produces nothing but panic and guilt, nothing is a sufficient enough distraction, and I will surely ruin the opportunities in front of me if this keeps up and if I remain haunted by all of this. Making this all my fault somehow makes it easier. They'll never know, they'll never read this, but I want them to know I'm not angry. Despite everything, despite trying my best to move on, despite the minuscule and largely ineffectual and rare rational thought in my head telling me to forget it (it's all dead and gone, leave them alone) I can't stop myself from still caring and still worrying about this person. Will it ever end? 

None of this is fair to the person that cares about me so deeply at the moment, and I hope it will all pass. It's all cyclical, right? And if I am actually suffering from what certain mental health professionals believe I am suffering from, then it all makes some sense. This is the low period I have to get through. The trouble is, however, that even when out of these "low periods", suicide seems like the only solution. Like the only thing that can paint the dauntingly empty canvas of my future. There's nothing at the end of it all and I feel as though I am racing towards that and making what life I do have here as painful and dull and disconnected as possible. My words get jumbled up, my thoughts are a minefield of overlapping terrain and impossible geometrical designs, I am unsure of every step I take. 

Recently, someone wonderful and caring and supportive asked me what I wanted. An impossible question, really. And with little thought or control over my own words I uttered something akin to, "I want there to be no one left that cares about me so I can finally kill myself." I don't know if I really meant that, maybe in that moment I did and, in more desperate and difficult moments, I do feel exactly that way. Thoughts of suicide always make me feel incredibly guilty and filled with shame. The person I was entangled with previously stopped caring at a certain point if I was alive or dead, who knows if they care now. But there are people that do care and I am an ugly, worthless scab of a human being to ever want any of that to go away. Suicide is the solution, I'll always tell myself that - and that's why people break away from me.

It's time for me to take my next pill. Dizziness and nausea will likely ensue as I toil in my bed mentally preparing myself for a return of an unwanted onslaught of dreams of things lost. Tomorrow is another day to waste. Tomorrow is another day closer to nonexistence. But tomorrow will be a signifier of even more time passing from this life-altering event that so clearly plagues me and another day passing where I survived. For whatever it's worth, I'm still here. 


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