She tells me it's not worth it.
She can't live this way, going to doctors every week, fucked up on pills so she doesn't even know who she is anymore or who anyone else is, hurting other people and fucking up their lives because they can't fix her.
I tell her she would hurt them far more this way; she says it would be a relief.
I tell her it's scary; she says, not as much as living life this way because this is not really living at all.
She tells me, does she want to spend the rest of her life on pills and hurting people who can't stop her from going crazy?
Not really, is the reply.
Well, what's the alternative? I ask. That's worse.
Not really, is the reply.
Are you serious??
Very.
I don't know what to say.
She starts talking about last weekend's party like nothing she had said before existed.
And I talk too because at least I know what to say here.
Silence.
It's a very permanent solution, I say.
She says, you're doing the same thing, fucking up your life, you're just killing yourself slowly. I'm just getting it over with. You die a little more every day, you just spread it out.
Silence.
We both look away.
Because I know she is right.
And she knows she is right.
And there's not a goddamn thing either of us can do about it.
********************************************
I wrote this last year after a conversation with one of my best friends. I spent the rest of the day crying for her, and for me. We understood each other so well and we were going through the same thing at the same time- manic-depression. The point was, we were both dealing with it in completely opposite ways- she would sit in her room all day and do nothing, and I'd go out all the time and do the craziest shit I could find to do. But we were both really doing the same thing to ourselves. I'm alot better now, but I never really know about her. Sometimes it seems like she is, but I never know if this time she'll actually go through with it. And that scares the shit out of me. But there's nothing I can do about it, and that's what this poem is meant to express: simply my frustration and helplessness in the situation, and the realization that sometimes we think we're living, but we're really not. Sorry, I know this is depressing, but sometimes that's just reality, thanks for reading if you got this far!
~kimmy.
She can't live this way, going to doctors every week, fucked up on pills so she doesn't even know who she is anymore or who anyone else is, hurting other people and fucking up their lives because they can't fix her.
I tell her she would hurt them far more this way; she says it would be a relief.
I tell her it's scary; she says, not as much as living life this way because this is not really living at all.
She tells me, does she want to spend the rest of her life on pills and hurting people who can't stop her from going crazy?
Not really, is the reply.
Well, what's the alternative? I ask. That's worse.
Not really, is the reply.
Are you serious??
Very.
I don't know what to say.
She starts talking about last weekend's party like nothing she had said before existed.
And I talk too because at least I know what to say here.
Silence.
It's a very permanent solution, I say.
She says, you're doing the same thing, fucking up your life, you're just killing yourself slowly. I'm just getting it over with. You die a little more every day, you just spread it out.
Silence.
We both look away.
Because I know she is right.
And she knows she is right.
And there's not a goddamn thing either of us can do about it.
********************************************
I wrote this last year after a conversation with one of my best friends. I spent the rest of the day crying for her, and for me. We understood each other so well and we were going through the same thing at the same time- manic-depression. The point was, we were both dealing with it in completely opposite ways- she would sit in her room all day and do nothing, and I'd go out all the time and do the craziest shit I could find to do. But we were both really doing the same thing to ourselves. I'm alot better now, but I never really know about her. Sometimes it seems like she is, but I never know if this time she'll actually go through with it. And that scares the shit out of me. But there's nothing I can do about it, and that's what this poem is meant to express: simply my frustration and helplessness in the situation, and the realization that sometimes we think we're living, but we're really not. Sorry, I know this is depressing, but sometimes that's just reality, thanks for reading if you got this far!
~kimmy.
