[Trigger Warnings: suicide]
I wrote this thing a while ago. You should read it before you read the rest of this post. I guess I should have talked to you about it before; I told you yesterday I should tell you about it when I’m stable. Well, hah, I’m not. I posted it anyway, and I’m writing this. I am rebellious against myself like that, like cells that mitose and evolve to become the nemeses of each other. And I am writing it out here instead.
I told someone about it once and she mostly just stared at me. “Yes, you’re being scary. Maybe a little bit,” she said when I asked about it. I must have rambled for up to eight minutes, and she was all silent. Parts of the story come from that conversation, though translated and made to fit. Bernard is obviously me, or what I feel like. He doesn’t live in the real world though; his death is one he can’t go back from, though if I died I think I could go back. Never did die though, and I hope I will never attempt.
We – the one I told and I – had fucked two weeks prior and now I was breaking down, and I’m sorry about that, and it probably meant more to me than it did to her. It meant friendship to me, not any partnerness or anything. I loved, and love, her as a friend, and she is the only person who is beautiful. She said she saw it as friendship and I trust her on that, but I break like the walls of a dam and it was bad, wasn’t it. I am so sorry.
She seems to like me still. She seemed happy to have lunch with me, and the time before that, she mumbled something like ‘same goes for you’ when I told her I love her. I don’t know how it works. But that is not what this is about. I break like a dam and fuck I can’t stop crying.
I wrote it the 8th of October. That was ten days before a cataclysm. (Talking about the bad events as cataclysms makes it sound like my life is important.) Probably I could smell the iron in the air and that’s why I wrote it. That is what I get like when I’m suicidal. Physical suicide is so anathema to me that identity death is the only other option left. The title comes from the end of A Scanner Darkly, which resonates with me like a tuning fork.
Sometimes I want to die. And that is what happens. And I get away. Did you know that 75% of those who survive jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge report regretting it in mid-air? I think the person who told me that might have bullshitted, but that is the effect of me trying to die like that. Bouncing back with broken bones. But you can’t survive howevermany falls. And I have disappeared from myself now.
Repetition is my biggest tell. I repeat myself when I’m not okay. I have repeated myself two and a half thousand times this sentence alone. I’m absorbed by the something else. Sometimes I convulse and then I’m okay again.
Being not okay is not the same thing as wanting to die. I am just not okay now. I want to be alive.
Did I explain things here? I hope so.
Oh, and to all you … other people. Hi. This is my blog now. Things will happen here. Bookmark it.