| | I don't know if I can handle this. Don't talk about something you don't know anything about. If you were on the outside, looking in, then you don't know. If you were a friend who lost a friend, then you don't know, try as you might. If you weren't the person who did it, who tried, who was desperate enough to, then you don't know.
Read your damn statistics. They'll give you numbers. They'll give you percentages. But they won't ever give you the reasons. The real reasons. It's not murder. It's not being a coward. It's stoping the pain. It's ending the pain. One bullet. 20 pills. Whatever it takes seems all too inviting when you've got nothing left.
And sometimes when you do have something left, sometimes that pain overshadows that. And your mind plays tricks on you. And your heart turns black and cold. And happiness is distant. A dream. Far away. Long ago. Is it really that selfish? What is a life of pain? Of suffering. No answers. No "it'll be okay..."
Nothing.
So fine. Write your poems. Write what you feel. By all means. But don't say he was a coward. Don't say I was a coward. Because I can bet you anything, after all the hell I've been dealt, I'm fifty times more couragous then you'll ever be.
Edit: Looked through my files. Look what I found. Two shorts I wrote WHILE I was suicidal.... damnit... it's too painful to read through these... you have no idea.
Stripped Wing
They're cruel, and heartless. They had a chance to strip me of both my wings, leave me lost, unable to soar as I was designed to do. They could have killed me, and ended it all, but instead they chose one wing taken would cause more harm then two.
I was made to fly. It's in my bones. I yearn every second of the day to step outside, to walk the stairs leading to an unending barren of light mists and indescribable faint blues. Veils of sunshine were my havens, but now I'm bounded to such a thing as infuriating as gravity, and my refuge in the sky has turned to be few and scattered memories of a time in centuries past. I'm chained to insecure impossibilities like a criminal is to their guilty conscience.
There was hope and confidence, and freedom in my ability to roam the sky, and though I still have one wing in my possession, my feet have been strapped to weights five times the size my senior, and even the art of placing one foot in front of the other is difficult, let alone placing both in the air to fly once more.
My thought's now drift to a time when I had those freedoms, and now not only does my heart ache, but my head pounds as the stress mounts. I'm terrified I'll never get out of this hell, or even ever soar again. I know somewhere inside me I could find the lost traits of that girl who could once fly, because half her spirit lies within me, in the forsaken wing, but how can one fly with one wing, and not the other?
How can one live with half her soul intact, but the other half stripped away?
Pain
When I last thought of the pain, thoroughly analyzed the agony I was being put through, death and the thought that I could end it all with only a held breath or an overdose on meds were the best escapes out.
I was weak then. In the few years separating the past from now, I grew stronger. I learned to fight back; I learned to become a warrior waging an ever present battle. But that warrior inside me has fled. Now it almost seems as if she were a dream. A figment of my imagination created for the soul purpose of keeping me alive for those agonizing months on end for no other reason but to bring me back to square one. To bring me back here.
Here, where the pain engulfs every moment, every memory, every leg shift and head turn. Soft, faint morning light streaming through blinds is thought of as treacherous, and a clicking clock on the bedside table lethal. It is here where torture is practiced with a never failing steady thunderous drum. It is here that demands I question life and it's struggles.
I'm weak. My soul slowly departs from my body every day. The warrior inside me left and now I have no protection against the pain.
I can do nothing to defend myself, and have no other choice but to surrender to the anguish.
I've tried hope. I've tried to get better, but now something inside me is shutting down and I'm not sure if life will ever be the same for me.
Life beyond my four walls doesn't seem to exist, and I sit here staring blankly at a white wall, and think about the pain.
It consumes me sometimes. Unhealthy habit, I know, but what else could I possibly do?
(Very soft) I'm weak.
(Softer) I'm fading. The pain is too great. I can't stand it. I'm gone. |
| | Posted 2/27/2004 2:36 AM - 1 view - 2 comments
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