Cowards die many times before their death
Today I had one of the worst meltdowns I’ve had in a really long time. I stomped, and screamed, and smashed my fists against the walls of my bathroom while taking a shower— screaming: “I never asked for this. I never asked for any of this. I never asked to be alive.” Over, and over… and over again.
I am only eighteen. I have only been eighteen for about a month. I have barely lived my life, or pursued my passions, but already, I feel as though i have had enough of it. But the saddest thing? I am but one of the hundreds, thousands, and — god, i hope not— millions of people who feel this way. Who feel like seeing, and breathing, and touching, and feeling, is not enough to want to be alive.
If i really think about it, I have not had a hard life at all. In fact, all things considered, I’ve had it pretty good. So what i can’t understand is how this hole in my heart that can’t be filled came to be. What i am, is emotionally incapacitated. I don’t have the ability to feel, or understand what i feel. Maybe this is what it’s like to be numb, but then again, there’s a dull ache that never really goes away. I can’t really be numb if there’s an ache, can i?
Some days, when it gets extraordinarily bad, it’s like the ache knows to amplify itself. It’s a needle in my heart. Then many thousand needles. Like I’m a pin cushion, holding all the coloured pins in place, poked and prodded. Used and discarded. Then all too soon it’s a knife in a chest; A twist, a turn, pull out and plunge it back in. Except… it’s all only in my head (and in my heart).
The heart is a muscle. So maybe it needs to be worn out before it can grow. But each vein is a lifeline, and each day one stretches taut and snaps. Today however, at one go, ten were snipped into loose threads. One for my father and my mother. Two, for my brother and my sister. Three for my friends who i could never truly love. Four, for the grief of the girl in the mirror.
So you see, i am only eighteen. But already i have only sparse few lifelines left. I am hanging onto strands millimetres thick, dangling over a cliff. What i wish for, is the courage to let go. What i really want, is for everything to end. Because when i picture my life a year, a decade, a lifetime from now, i see the same. The same anguish, the same darkness, the same routine day in and day out. The irony is, if i want it to end, i mustn’t do anything.
I am not suicidal, and this is not a farewell note. My attempts at being heard is proof enough of my hope to live. Yet, this is what kills me everyday.
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but feelings can really fuck me right up.