A Slightly Suicidal....Note

A Slightly Suicidal.....Note

Sometimes I feel like life was easier when I was slightly suicidal. When frustrations threatened to take over my mind there was sweet release in entertaining fantasies of death. I could close my eyes and imagine how I'd go in search of pills and drift off into nothingness, or, daydream a quick painless slice up my forearm through which I could pour out my life in clean lines of regulated fluids. Life felt easier because at the end of the stressed days or depressing mornings I could at least find comfort in knowing there was always an option: death by choice.

However, complication comes through deliverance when my attempted manifestations of fantasies led me facing public toilets in emergency room bathroom stalls until my body heaved forth my self-inflicted poisons, cold blades on ice-soaked skin was too painful to continue contact, so I covered the invisible scars left there by attempts on my life with a tattoo meant to symbolize life-forces.

I feigned spirituality at first, covering my failure to take from God and myself what he'd given. Instead of admitting my defeat, I spoke only of my hidden purpose that had to have been set in my path in order for me to escape Death. God had to be forcing me into some Master Plan if I could not die. I did not think I was invincible, instead actually believing I was either going to be of great countenance or I was being punished for my inherent evil.

I searched for meanings upon meanings in why I could wake up so many mornings angry at God for not allowing my bed to be my coffin. I tried to read the Bible; I tried the Koran, the Torah, and looked to Buddha. I tried to be the good friend, the humanitarian, the minister, yet and still I had no peace. Those I counseled could leave me with a smile on their face, feeling the warmth of the soul that continued to elude me, though it was seemingly provided by my influence.

I attempted to pursue the truth, utilizing reason and logic, then gradually my skewed mind created a world in which I was separate from those that revolved around me. I observed and interacted on a limited basis with the land of the living, for my heart had long grown cold. I felt no warmth from the sun, no clean relief in the kisses of rain, no inner smile from memories.

I wrote my life down in revisions upon revisions; I painted myself into pictures of how I perceived myself, how I wished to perceive myself, and in edited versions of my personal memories. Franz Kafka says that "writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself." In the darkness of my writings, through the lies I wished to believe, I grew no closer to myself. I started trying so hard to believe the false masterpieces so I could not focus on the validity that pain showed in the mirrors.

I was lost in writing until my words finally found me, and in that moment I grew speechless…