We wrestled with
half-forgotten promises,
Words lingering on empty chairs and broken windows.
I tell you I don’t need this,
You say you wonder how to exit.
How easy it is, how very easy it is to find
The escape hatch to something that should not have been
From an adventure to nowhere in particular,
but that what is together cannot be bound,
and must always remain
—-
My MBTI profile has changed from being an ENTP (The Inventor) to an INTJ (The Scientist). I’m now an introvert. Hurrah!
—
I’m telling you I’m leaving, for good. I wonder how you’ll do, what you’ll say and how you’ll be from here on. Carry on. The most cruel words, perhaps, of the human tongue. Carry on. As if things were so damn easy as to continue walking the avenues of life. As if. As if the world will leave us alone when in fact, we’re trying to be engulfed in its splendor. But it will spit us out and leave us crying outside the door. Aaaargh! The world frustrates me with its laws and its enumerable checker-board illusions. I cannot make it through. I cannot do this anymore alone. I need help.Perhaps, for the first time in ages, I’m begging for help. I am on my knees. And I need you. I need you. It’s an emergency in slow motion. I need help. Help me. I’m frantic and I’m cold and I’m scared and I’m in a state of panic already.
I am cold and shattered again, but I’m broken a little less each time… It’s getting easier. Está consiguiendo más fácil con la repetición…
Curious, curious property of emotions, this callousing of feelings.
I’m tired of hating myself and running after leftover love.
I’m tired of epiphanies when they’re not needed- like in the middle of a seminar, when you should be your best and you realize how pathetically alone you are.
I’m tired of reaching for things I cannot have.
I’m tired of uncertainties that paint my day the blackest shade. It’s not fair. It’s not fair at all. Why must I always rage against what is present? Why am I never content? I want to scream until the acid night fills my lungs with melancholy like it has always breathed in.
There’s not enough room in the world for me. There’s not enough room anywhere at all.
I am a raging lunatic. When you tell me you love me, I scream ‘why, why, why?’
—
The silent hunger creeps in,
I shut the door and it persists.
Finally, after a month of denial,
I turn the knob to face the truth:
My mind will never forget its acid face,
Lacing every defeat with the reprise of the secret shame.
A promise with each line,
A soothing melody with each monotonous color.
I will never be free of this.
I will never be free of its temptation.
I know this now.
I don’t know why I did it. Perhaps, I wanted to admire the faithful diary I had kept. Flipping through the pages, you reincarnated yourself. You reincarnated your eyes, your perfume, all the little stolen memories I associated with you. And for once, I could relive them and snap back without tears. The words ‘he was never mine to begin with’ reverberated in my mind as a thousand doors locked into place.
—
“Drink your medicine!” was the unanimous phrase I heard today. I was rabid with anxiety and depression. I hated myself. I hate myself. I’m trapped by the boundaries created by a few neurotransmitters. I hate it. I wanna kill myself. Revise. I wanna hurt myself. Revise. I want to fade away. Revise. I want to sleep.
Ugh! I’m still rabid. I drank my medicine only 5 minutes ago. It will take a few hours for the world to be surreal and docile again. Revise. This is not real. Revise. This is the reality that most people know. Revise. I don’t care. I’m scared shitless at the moment and I’m rabid with self-hatred and anxiety. Revise. I want to sleep and never wake up.
“Your suicidal tendency is 7… Was it ever zero?” Lorenzo asked me.
Yes.
“When?”
When I was with him.
“And you’d give up all that? I admire your sacrifice.”
Is there any other choice? Any other way?
“For some, yes.”
Not for me. (Inside I cringe and my soul turns to dust.)
“Can you make a contract with me? That you won’t go through with suicide?”
Yes. Okay.
“How long can you commit?”
3 months.
“3 months? Not even 6?
No. 3 months.
So I sign and make a contract banning myself from self-assasination for 3 months.
For the nth time, I’m back at the beginning of the spiral. For the nth time, I’m the accused and the forbidden lies two inches from my fingertips.
“There is a time for departure whether or not there is a certain place to go.”
-Tennessee Williams
“Oh tyrant love, to what do you not drive the hearts of men?”
-Virgil in The Aeneid
My speech is slurry and my handwriting is getting worse. Abilify. Ugh. I wish for antidepressants instead.
And you’re here.
