Forever Young

There is something oddly weird and maybe even satisfying by knowing that you will die by suicide.

Nights and days like these make it the more evident to you. Normal death won’t come to you. You will take care of that matter yourself. You will be in control. Maybe this is why there are absolute comfort and satisfaction to it.

Because you are in control, you get to chose when, where and how.

I’ve known there was something wrong with me a long time ago. Well, maybe not that long ago. It has been a few years since I remembered my very first encounter with death. Or with the drive to want to die. The strange force that made me want to hurt myself. I was four or five. I tried to pull at my earings until I tore the lobe apart, I desired to jump out of the window. Instead, I cried in fear, not knowing how to call or ask for help.

Every time I’d put my hands on my earings, I’d get scared and tried to do something else with my hands. But I had the most intrusive thoughts of a lifetime. I was supposed to be asleep or at least trying to. Instead, I was trying not to hurt myself or keep these intentions at bay. The picture of me succeeding though, I could not keep at bay.

Psychology class triggered a lot of hidden bad intentions and a lot of past, well forgotten and buried traumas. This only helped to fuel the anxious nerve ball I have become today. I thought puberty was terrible, but now in my early twenties, I am not even sure if I am actually experiencing middle age crisis or just nearing doomsday.

This feeling is so different. I have given up in a way. I don’t feel the usual burning rage in me that makes my blood boil and my heart race, it is not the same rage and hurt that makes me want to cry hysterically and hurt people, not physically but verbally, make them bleed innerly like I am suffering. I want it to stop. I want to fall asleep and never wake up again. I want my ride on the tram to continue. I am okay with the idea of constant travel in public transport as long as I am sitting next to the window. I don’t want to get out because the reality is there. I don’t want to face reality, or my feelings, or my responsibilities, duties, emotions, plans. I don’t want to deal with anything and anyone.

It is exhausting having to deal with so much. I want to stop feeling. But you can only stop feeling if you stop breathing.

Has my time come?

Have I reached my rock-bottom?

I don’t know. I can’t make a rational thought, and I can’t talk myself out of my head, I can’t calm myself down. And I used to be able to. I feel like an elephant is sitting on my chest. Breathing isn’t supposed to be this hard; it isn’t supposed to be a struggle it isn’t supposed to make you think about it. My chest feels heavy.

My head is my prison, my thoughts my torturers, my futile tries of talking myself out of that darkness is a comedian, making fun of me, creating a new joke, with me being the punchline.

I was told once, during a panic attack that by going out, getting out of the room will make me feel better. That by changing the setting I was in, I will feel better.

But I can’t escape the setting in my head. I can’t stop what is coming in there, what I am seeing and hearing. I have lost control over my sanity. Have I ever had sanity, to begin with?

I used to want to get into fights with my friends, in spite, to put down the flame that was burning me on the inside. I needed to let it out somewhere. Now I couldn’t.

I’ve never known how to ask for help.

I could ask a stranger behind the screen miles away from me. But I never could ask my friends or family, the ones that could give appropriate help. But I gave them hints.

Because I was a coward to ask properly.

But they didn’t notice. They didn’t get my hints.

Maybe this will be on them.

My final assholeness, the last stand of it, to make my friends feel guilty about my death. I guess this way I will haunt them and I will stay with them longer.

Breathing is getting harder.

Is it my anxiety and whatever other mental problem I was having that was causing this?

Or was it the pills I took?

I guess we will never know.

I guess I will never know.

What was wrong with me and why I couldn’t fight it off.

Why I gave up, why I was crying while writing this.

Maybe there was a tiny part that was fighting there inside of me, for me. For us.

But it was too tiny, too small to succeed on its own.

Too late.

I am getting weak and heavy at the same time.

It is cold and lonely, but soon I stop feeling anything whatsoever.

It was soon going to be over.

I may find my peace.

Or I may find nothing at all.

It is okay, though. I have made up my mind.

I was about to be free forever.

Forever young.

I am forever gone.

Forever the same, unchangeable.

Forever.

Young.