Another day is gone and I’m not sure it meant anything to me.
I wrote a suicide letter once. I did it as a therapeutic experiment. I might have even written the words THERAPEUTIC EXPERIMENT across the top of the page in case, god forbid, I die accidentally with it in my possession and people get the wrong idea. It started out as a suicide letter. I was in one of those periods of time during which there was some moment of every day when I wished I was dead. That particular period lasted for about a year and a half.
The letter shifted in my writing of it and became a piece in which I was already dead and talking to the still-left-living. The voice of the piece was me after I had succeeded in killing myself, and what came across the page so clearly was regret.
In life it doesn’t always feel like anything new is possible. In fact, sometimes it seems as if this one feeling of loneliness or desolation is all I have ever known and will ever know. It can feel like nothing will ever change for me because my experience of life and of myself will never change; it will always tend toward the shadows (or so it seems to me).
But possibility is inherent to life. At least, that’s what Dead Me claimed. Dead Me regretted killing me because what had seemed so convincing in life–that it was never going to get any better for me–turned out to only be absolutely true in death. As long as I’m alive, there’s just no saying for sure.
I wrote that letter just over a year ago. I suppose I thought of it tonight for the same reason it’s always come to mind since: I found myself starting to wonder. I was staring out my window, watching night fall, and I started to cry not knowing if my days are ever going to mean something to me.
I was thinking so much today about how badly I wish I had a teacher. And the truth is, it’s not the teacher or the guidance or the wisdom that I crave as much as it’s the sense of comfort and safety that I imagine would come with resting for one moment in someone else’s arms, on someone else’s path, tethered to someone else’s line.
I am so fucking sick and tired of feeling so helplessly alone. I want respite. I want a place to rest. I don’t want to have to wake up tomorrow and do it all again. But I will. For just this one part of tonight, I hate that I will. In this very moment, I resent having to breathe. But I do, and I will. Because there is no alternative. Not for me. Not anymore. Death is absolute. Possibility is inherent in life.