I feel as though there is something very fundamental that is broken inside me, but I’m not sure what. Everyone else is completely alien to me, it’s like they’re a different species. I can’t truly feel any connection to anyone, even those that I deeply care for and love still feel alien. I don’t experience any positive emotions to the extent that others do, if at all. My lows are the only parts of me that I ever feel, and that’s still rare. I am filled with pain and hate, and yet I still feel so numb and empty. I hate so much about myself that I don’t even fully understand myself. Inside my head is a constant flood of thousands of concurrent voices screaming, every one of them belonging to me. I just want the pain to stop, but I don’t know what to do. I can’t even fully comprehend the fundamental concept of others; I can’t wrap my head around the fact that others have their own consciousness and autonomy. Even those that I love feel like high functioning automotons, and I’m simply an unwilling puppet dancing on a stage of broken glass. I desperately want to escape this hell, but I can’t even do that. I’ve had a gun to my own head countless times, screaming and tensing every single muscle inside my body except the one single muscle that I need to finally pull that trigger, and it makes me hate myself as a coward. I want so badly to be able to join the rest of the world and feel as though I’m not simply an outsider who is observing those around me. I want to connect, but I don’t know how and never have. Every breath is agony, as though I’m breathing nothing but shattered glass and blood. Every thought inside my head is lost in the maelstrom of screaming. Every moment I wake I wish to return to the dirt and sleep a dreamless sleep until the end of all days. I understand the factual idea that others think and feel, but I cannot fathom the philosophical and emotional concept of such. I wear a constant mask, because those around me cannot be allowed to view even a shred of my true pain and hatred. If they only knew, they would try to help, and it would make it so much worse. I don’t want to be acknowledged in my pain, and yet I want to scream from the mountaintops all the years of suffering that ferments inside my soul. I feel connection to nothing and nobody, not even myself. I feel like nothing but the whisper of a ghost inside a hollow shell of profaned flesh. I want to live, truly live, but I don’t know how. If I cannot live, I wish to die, but I don’t have the will to extinguish the final pitiful flame of senseless hope that prevents my one single finger from moving that one single fraction of an inch, even knowing that it would be the one thing I know can set me free from my own hell. I cannot hurt those around me, even though I am fully unable of comprehending the emotions of others. I am nothing but an unwilling puppet on razor wire strings, dancing on a stage of broken glass, screaming my silent scream through hollow eyes and wooden lungs.
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This post is very well written. I like the language and style. Leaving aside the literary merits of this post, the subject of the post could be applied to most suicidal ppl.
A hell we’re all trapped in. I once said that if a man saves you from the flames, you don’t go and criticize his bucket. Lately I’ve been thinking that not all people consent to be doused, and those are the ones that will need the water the most. I wrote down my feelings to try to get my head in order. I sent them to a friend recently, who was struggling. I wanted to show her that everyone can suffer; she always admired how strong she thought I was, I thought it might help to see that all rocks can crack, and that nobody is truly alone in pain. Maybe my thoughts can help others too. The more I learn, the more I realize I don’t know, and maybe others feel the same. I would crawl on broken legs for miles to feel a connection, and maybe knowing that one may lie somewhere could serve as a beacon of hope to another, meager though it may be.
that self loathing / recrimination pattern is familiar, it’s what I’ve been struggling with as well. This pain, as I think you actually encapsulated quite well, is pervasive, and unavoidable as sure as breathing. Yet I remain in my corner, hoping against all odds that tomorrow will be sufficiently different.
I believe that even depression must at some point be adaptive. I can’t shake mine anymore, and it means the end of a career that I’ll really be sad to walk away from. It’s walk from my former life, or walk from life entirely. As with you, it is a struggle to deal with suicidality with any margin of reason.
Yes, the pain is awful, the hatred so great, but, tend it. Let it out in bursts. Find ways to re engage with the present, and maybe there’ll be a place for you. I don’t know about mine, much less anyone else’s. The most joyous fact is that life is finite, and infinitely too short. Death stalks us all, and it will come soon enough. Or so goes today’s self care attempts to calm my desire to kill or die.