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Trigger warnings for: depression, suicide, child abuse. These are ramblings about my life, so if that isn't your cup of tea, do move on to the next table!
Do you ever feel like your life is slipping away from you? Like you're holding onto a rope tied to the end of a train speeding over the edge of a cliff, falling down and falling apart, pieces of the puzzle scattered one after the other like dominoes in a row until the very last one fall and the fat lady sings and your life is over but you're only nineteen years old and you don't know how the fuck you got here.
It's the weirdest feeling i the world, to wake up in the morning and ask "why?" Why? Why am I awake? Why is the Sun up? Why do I have class, why do I have work? Why do I need to eat, drink, sleep, breathe?
Why bother?
I guess that's what depression is. Nothing makes sense anymore and it feels like the entire world has turned against you. Not that the world becomes your enemy, but that you become your enemy. The world stays exactly the same and you turn into the piece that doesn't fit in. Living outside of life, looking in through the window - able to see what's happening but helpless to do anything about it. You aren't safe here. You aren't happy here. This is not your home.
The days when I feel like I'm slipping away are some of the hardest. They're the days when I feel like I'm floating away from the world, and it's above me and beneath me and all around me but I'm still falling awayawayaway. Two magnets with the same charge facing each other, and I'm the one that's rocketing off into space where there's no air and I can't breath anymore. These days happen of their own accord, coming and going as they please without so much as a "Hey, thanks for a great night, maybe I'll call you in the morning." No pleasantries here. Only coming, going, using me as needed, and these are some needy motherfuckers. Trying to hold on is a full time job and some days, it's just too hard.
The days when I'm being pushed away are the hardest. Not slipping anymore, not floating. Being thrown, tossed around like the days when I was only seven and I don't know where my dad went but mommy's mad again and I promise, Teacher, a bookshelf fell on me and that's where the bruises on my face came from. The days when my loved ones reject me - the "You're just giving up and running away" and the "I don't think your life is that bad" and the "Why are you like this? What's wrong with you?" What, indeed. These days are special, because these are specific, these are intentional. These are given to me because I made the decision (the mistake?) of letting someone in, of letting someone know, and they know, they hear, they don't understand. They don't see because they don't look and maybe they don't want to look and that's why they can't see that I'm dying.
The days when I'm dying are every day. Every single one. Slowly, like when you're staring at the clock, waiting to get out of class or work, but you swear the minute hand has started moving backwards and the hour hand has started slowing down. My life doesn't make sense anymore. Events happen out of order, the days move by too quickly and too slow, it's Sunday but I could've sworn it was Thursday and I wish it was Wednesday but that still doesn't explain how I got here. My clock doesn't move - or maybe I've just forgotten how to read it. Maybe I never knew. But it hurts and it's hard and sometimes I'm slipping away and sometimes I'm thrown away and sometimes I just want to let go.
I want to let go.
I just want to let go.
But I don't. I haven't, and I won't - or at least, I'm trying not to. I'm following that train, I'm gluing the pieces together, I'm setting the dominoes up and I'm tone deaf anyway, so fuck the why, fuck the how, fuck everything. I'm doing what I can, and if that's not good enough, then fuck. Fuck.
Fuck.
Do you ever feel like your life is slipping away from you? Like you're holding onto a rope tied to the end of a train speeding over the edge of a cliff, falling down and falling apart, pieces of the puzzle scattered one after the other like dominoes in a row until the very last one fall and the fat lady sings and your life is over but you're only nineteen years old and you don't know how the fuck you got here.
It's the weirdest feeling i the world, to wake up in the morning and ask "why?" Why? Why am I awake? Why is the Sun up? Why do I have class, why do I have work? Why do I need to eat, drink, sleep, breathe?
Why bother?
I guess that's what depression is. Nothing makes sense anymore and it feels like the entire world has turned against you. Not that the world becomes your enemy, but that you become your enemy. The world stays exactly the same and you turn into the piece that doesn't fit in. Living outside of life, looking in through the window - able to see what's happening but helpless to do anything about it. You aren't safe here. You aren't happy here. This is not your home.
The days when I feel like I'm slipping away are some of the hardest. They're the days when I feel like I'm floating away from the world, and it's above me and beneath me and all around me but I'm still falling awayawayaway. Two magnets with the same charge facing each other, and I'm the one that's rocketing off into space where there's no air and I can't breath anymore. These days happen of their own accord, coming and going as they please without so much as a "Hey, thanks for a great night, maybe I'll call you in the morning." No pleasantries here. Only coming, going, using me as needed, and these are some needy motherfuckers. Trying to hold on is a full time job and some days, it's just too hard.
The days when I'm being pushed away are the hardest. Not slipping anymore, not floating. Being thrown, tossed around like the days when I was only seven and I don't know where my dad went but mommy's mad again and I promise, Teacher, a bookshelf fell on me and that's where the bruises on my face came from. The days when my loved ones reject me - the "You're just giving up and running away" and the "I don't think your life is that bad" and the "Why are you like this? What's wrong with you?" What, indeed. These days are special, because these are specific, these are intentional. These are given to me because I made the decision (the mistake?) of letting someone in, of letting someone know, and they know, they hear, they don't understand. They don't see because they don't look and maybe they don't want to look and that's why they can't see that I'm dying.
The days when I'm dying are every day. Every single one. Slowly, like when you're staring at the clock, waiting to get out of class or work, but you swear the minute hand has started moving backwards and the hour hand has started slowing down. My life doesn't make sense anymore. Events happen out of order, the days move by too quickly and too slow, it's Sunday but I could've sworn it was Thursday and I wish it was Wednesday but that still doesn't explain how I got here. My clock doesn't move - or maybe I've just forgotten how to read it. Maybe I never knew. But it hurts and it's hard and sometimes I'm slipping away and sometimes I'm thrown away and sometimes I just want to let go.
I want to let go.
I just want to let go.
But I don't. I haven't, and I won't - or at least, I'm trying not to. I'm following that train, I'm gluing the pieces together, I'm setting the dominoes up and I'm tone deaf anyway, so fuck the why, fuck the how, fuck everything. I'm doing what I can, and if that's not good enough, then fuck. Fuck.
Fuck.