December Again

 

Sentimentality and Scabs 

For the past week to ten days, or however long it has actually been, I have tried to sit down and dedicate time to writing. To work on something new, or to continue an old, long-forgotten and neglected project, of which there are several that haunt me every single day. However, exhaustion, numbness, and an existential tiredness beyond description have taken hold of me and dragged me down deep into the shadows of inability, uncreativity, and an astounding sense of defeat. This is typical and is bound to happen from time to time, it is the product of a brain born with insufficient chemicals that wildly oscillate moods and perspectives back and forth without warning, and beyond control. Additionally, as I progress further down my prescription path of antidepressants, antipsychotics, and whatever else they might be giving me after growing numb to everything else - my palm filling up with tablets of increasing sizes, capsules rattling with little eager sand grains of chemicals waiting to riot in my stomach acid - I have lapsed into a possible zombified state of perpetual survival, operating day-to-day with no powerful feelings to disturb the all-important goal to simply keep living. Life crawls along as a blind, useless, vacuous, acidic slug and I am frozen in its path ready to be dissolved by its putrescent slime of passing time. However, it could be that I am not as numb as I claim to be, or else I wouldn’t have the increasing urge haunting me again to slice into my arm and spread my blood all over everything. Nor would I feel myself, from time to time, sinking under a blanketing malaise of consuming sorrow and emptiness. Furthermore, I still feel myself becoming overwhelmed with the rare positive emotion that I don’t feel worthy of, or one that comes on strong but then leaves me just as quickly creating an expanding void in its wake to swallow up my mind. Love is a terrible thing, yet I see it as the only significant aspect of life that makes any of this aggravating nonsense worth trudging through. But it is an emotion that devours and creates doubts, indecision, impulsivity, delusion, and self-harm. It cripples, gores, and leaves you drawn, quartered, and scattered into a bloodied, organ-scented wind that shreds your reality into infinitesimal droplets of piercing longing, regret, or unrequited overwhelming feelings toward a grand agent of destruction. 

I have no idea what I’m saying. It makes sense in my head, but I can’t ever get the right words out. 

Anyway, none of this is what I wanted to write. I sat in front of a blank screen and was overcome with intimidation and threw up a bunch of meaningless bile all over the page. 

 

My window is open, below-freezing wind cutting through me. My scabs itch, and my boiling mind is firmly buried underneath the snow. 

It is December again. The slow, droning pulse of autumn is soon to dissipate into the comforting deadness of winter. Engorged gray clouds blot out the sky and will soon (hopefully) drip with the sparkling blood of the season. I want it to crush me, I want it to suffocate me, I want to be lost in a screaming blizzard and feel every cell of my putrid body be torn and obliterated in an endless barrage of impossibly freezing winds. More importantly, I want to forget. I want to forget where I was years ago during December and who I spent it with. The cold, damp days of shared, bedridden sickness - our isolation and all that we endured only for it all to fester, bubble, and burst with deathly fluids of infection just one year later. It may have only killed me, but I know she’s still left with the opened manipulated wounds. Why do I still want to try to protect her? It’s all gone, it’s all gone, my thoughts and memories are indestructible cobwebs casting a net around my perpetually rotting and painfully conscious corpse, keeping me from ever committing myself to a final exit through every paralyzed, confused, sleepless night. 

All that said, my heart explodes in pulsating tendrils towards many others. Even people I don’t know, but I know are suffering in many similar ways as me or in far worse ways. It is likely one of the most difficult times of the year for many, and my withered, lacerated arms reach out to you all and wish to offer some vague sort of reassurance and comfort - even though I know how futile and ridiculous that all is. Whoever out there who is feeling the unbearable overwhelming weight of isolation, mental illness, rejection, hatred, etc., I wish I could assure you all that you are not alone and you can survive. But I don’t know if I will survive, every year I am convinced it will be my last, and every year I fail to make that true. Even so, I don’t foresee myself being here for long. November or December simply feels like the natural time of year to die. Everything either dies or begins to die during this time, and it is only appropriate that the fact that I love this time of year, it also is a fitting aspect of my demise. How I can reassure anyone of persevering if I know full well that I can not persevere for long? 

I’ll make it through this year. Everything will be gone. I’ll be birthed anew into the corpse I was born to be. 

That is all.

Soon I’ll have a new piece of writing out, I hope.