I thought I was safe in March...History seems to indicate otherwise.
I had a pretty intense, full scale breakdown yesterday and when I finally returned to my cognizance, I was reminded of a piece I thought I'd already shared with my Blue (and Green) brethren.
I was startled by two things: first, I hadn't actually shared it with anyone...and the date. March 19. 2017.
Here it is, in its entirety.
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What Do You Do...When you have no more options? Drugs don't numb the pain? You can't find the answer at the bottom of a bottle? Being in bed with someone, shopping till the cards are maxed, gambling away the last penny...nothing quiets the screaming, nothing fills that gaping hole?
Suicide is just stupid and wouldn't help anyway? You can't go to the psych ward because that would make things worse...you can't run away, you have responsibilities/kids/family/pets/whatever and you can't/don't want to leave because the thought alone sends you into hysterics but the thought of staying makes you want to throw up because everything you do just...feels like a goddamn failure?
Everything you fucking touch? Every word you say? Everything you're saying and doing is fucking WRONG? You're letting everyone down, including yourself? And no one has any problems telling you you're fucking up (in whatever language they choose to use, you hear what they're saying, fluffy bullshit aside)?
What do you do? The only thing you can: you sit in your pain. Like an ever-turning wheel, what goes down will go up again. When you are happy, you will be sad again...but when you are sad, if you wait, you will be happy again. This sounds like the shittiest advice when you feel like ripping off the skin from your face but if you're trapped in a corner with nowhere to go, the only thing to do is wait and it will pass.
It's called grieving and it fucking sucks. I'm grieving. Yeah, I'm writing about fighting to make this year amazing but every day is pain. Pain. But that, exactly that, is the nature of mourning: a period of grief, lamentation, sorrowing, desolation, pain, misery. What is significant about that? A period. It's finite. It will pass.
Everything passes. For whatever that's worth.
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That sounds, on one hand, like some Gandhi-level wisdom. On the other hand, it also sounds like a door-knocker level length (or do I mean depth?) Hallmark card of pure bullshit.
I wrote it a year ago. I'm still in the corner, trapped there by a never ending cycle of [FUCK WHY IS THIS SO FUCKING HARD TO WRITE??] a cycle of Cerberus, each named something monstrous [Emaciation, Rejection, Miscarriage {wait, what the FUCK? I didn't even think I could fucking get pregnant?!?!}, emancipation, rejuvenation, celebration]...um...hey...those...those last three, fuck you...those last three were hopeful and I'm not fucking allowed to have hope, you fucklebutted snotwads of congealed jizzery...my life is a chili-fest port-o-potty. What is that damn light? It hurts! Stop with all that fucking giggling, it's like a bunch of fucking pink bats - get away from me and stop being adorable when I'm attempting to wallow in misery, who the hell let you in here, My Little Pony? I will not acknowledge it may be getting better right now because that might prove me right, dummy, and I am always WRONG, remember?? Whaddayamean, either way, I'm right? Who are you? Who's Ed? Id? Never heard of it. Pass me the sunblock.
