attempting the precise
8 November 2010 § Leave a comment
I lost my voice during the course of a five hour conversation that could lead to a poetic revolution. It might not, of course, but I’m all about hope right now. The devil inside me won’t let me go, and he’s not easy to please.
I’ve spent the better part of the last week or so thinking of all the reasons I shouldn’t kill myself. I haven’t come up with many, to be truthful, but it’s an active thought process that keeps me from thinking of all the reasons I should.
The fog was low in the night but it didn’t limit my visibility of the lamp posts on the side of the highway. The roads were icy and there weren’t many cars on the road. There were just enough, in fact, to give me a single pair of red lights to focus all of my attention on at any given time. I passed them quickly. Before that, I’ve never wished to be pulled over before, but I wonder now how I would have reacted to seeing flashing lights and hearing sirens. I took a breath once in a while but my whole body felt like concrete. Movement was impossible except for an occasional scream inside the small, enclosed cabin of the car, and I cherished the pain in my eardrums. It was different than that pulsing through the rest of me.
The consuming feeling of failure washed over me – I felt the tingling of catharsis in my nose and down my spine. Images raced through my head faster than I could fight them. It wasn’t long before I stopped trying. I let them race to their death, but the voice in my head that usually distracts me from focusing, my voice, repeated itself. Each time it rose in volume. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.
I must have sounded like a blubbering idiot at the time, but something happened in my head that night that I haven’t been able to balance since. Those thoughts stay with me, every moment, and only when I can focus and keep myself busy with something productive can I squelch them. But that doesn’t last long. I thought that once I recovered the other night, I would be okay. That my logic would return to me like a loyal dog. It hasn’t.
It’s like that wound that never heals, especially when you pick at the scab, consciously or not. She said it, and it was a good analogy. I can’t help but think that all of this – this boiling solitude – is just an analogy, but it doesn’t matter if it is or not. Talking about it in terms of arbitrary objects is easier. It’s probably safer, too.
But it’s still not going away. And I don’t know if it just needs time to simmer and recede or if I’ll be fighting this forever, because of one moment of weakness. I’m not going to give in to it. And my reasons for that may be a little off, they might be missing the point a bit, but they are the reasons that work for me and have kept me from doing anything I might consider quite stupid to myself.
I can’t because you did. And I’m not okay with that, because I’m self-serving and not always very considerate. Because I feel like you took it away from me before I could have it. Can I hate you for that? I don’t want to, but I do, just a little.
It has never in my life been so difficult to admit anything like this: I’m not okay. Here I am, the stone of logic and twisted common sense, the methodical and detachable me, and my biggest challenge in life right now is no longer becoming someone useful to society, no longer to manipulate people into getting what I want or need, and not to assert the strength of one’s capabilities versus another’s. All of that is worthless – and if I was less blind, I would have seen that a long time ago.
No, my challenge now is to keep breathing. To do whatever is necessary, because I want to be here. Even if that means sucking up all of my pride and solitude and spitting it out. Scouring my insides. The snow is on the ground now; I’m sure the mucus will make for colorful decorations in the nightmares of goblins buried in unmarked graves.