I like watchin' the puddles gather rain...

There is always that brief interlude, between the end of something and the all-consuming darkness, wherein everything is brilliant, bright and happy. I'm amazed by everything, overjoyed by the fact I managed to achieve a goal or complete something, no time could be better and nothing could destroy that happiness. That interlude, retrospectively, is arguably the worst time. To experience all that joy and wonder, only to have it snatched from your grasp so quickly, I'd rather never have it at all. It is how I imagine those born blind would feel if one day they could see everything; to experience colour, to finally put names to objects and see the faces of their loved ones, only to go blind once more. It is intensely cruel and it is despairing.

Most days I do believe, wholeheartedly, that my tumultuous moods, my dark days, are the result of my own failings. My inability to steer clear of triggers for my depression, my inability to not be lured back down that path, when I’ve spent so long staggering back to the place where everyone else is, and mostly, my inability to contain my macabre thoughts and beliefs from my actions and every day life. All those failings have collaborated and left me bear when depression, anxiety and disordered thoughts, come knocking at my door. And I open it, because why shouldn’t I? They may not be the friendliest visitors, but I welcome them in because they are there and nothing or no one else is. Because I know them so well, because I’d rather welcome them in than spend the rest of my days staring at the four walls I’ve made my prison cell. There is only so much time a person can spend on their own, even for an introverted and socially awkward person such as myself, you readily welcome the distraction when it is there to be experienced and felt. 

I would like to think I’m a rational person, open to possibilities and not a ‘black and white’ sort of thinker. However, there are times when, in my own life, everything is black or it is white. 

‘Someone upset me, so the rest of my week is ruined’
‘My friend told me I looked ill, they all must hate me’
‘I’ve failed this and I’ve failed at everything, I’m worthless and shouldn’t be here’

Black or white thinking is dangerous. That sort of thinking is what happens to me when I’m no longer distracted and stressed from having to write yet another damn essay on something I couldn’t give a toss about, when I have no where to be and nothing to do. All I have is what is already here and in my own head, and nothing can distract me from those. How can you concentrate on a film or get lost in reading, when your own psyche is nagging you, reminding you constantly of what a failure and worthless human being you are? Day in and day out, it is constant and for someone who is awake for at least 21 hours every day, that’s a long time to be on the receiving end of such thoughts. That’s if I sleep at all.

It is unsurprising then that thoughts of suicide aren’t a stranger to me; I’ve contemplated it far more often than any person should. During my more rational and coherent days, I can’t make sense of that, the consequences of it, for my family and friends. But in the grips of darkness and tormenting thoughts that hurt so badly you can feel the pain physically and apathy, which is most dangerous, the idea offers relief. I’m hurting so much and nothing can take this away from me, why not? It could make some people sad, but that would pass, they’d realise how much of a burden I was to them once I’m no longer there to weight them down. Particularly the thought, ‘how could anyone ever love someone like me?’ pops into my head. Me, I’m permanently broken, constantly a burden to deal with, with nothing to offer anyone in this world. I have no talent, no calling, no notable intelligence to speak of and really, the only good thing I’ve ever done was to be loyal to my few close friends. Anyone can do that.

However, knowing others who have suffered from the same illness, I could never conceive that it is their fault, in any way, not like I believe my illness is my own fault. Those people have been some of the most brilliant, strongest and intelligent human beings I have known. None of them have deserved their despair and suffering, and none of them could be blamed for it. Me on the other hand, I can be blamed. Despite knowing, from previous experiences, what lies ahead of me if I let those thoughts sliver in, I let them in. If those thoughts were people, I’d argue I have wined and dined them extensively, made them comfortable, brandy in the drawing room and whatnot. Unlike those people, I have known who have been similar to myself; darker thoughts and feelings don’t appear to be out of place, they seem natural, intrinsic to my personality even. I could never be labeled as an optimistic or extroverted, lively sort of person. I’ve always been, as one of my dear friends remarked, ‘drawn to the more macabre aspect of life’. It’s the attention that I have given, and time I’ve spent extrapolating those abnormalities and morbid ideas, that have made it a chronic problem. At least, that’s what I believe today. Yesterday I didn’t believe in anything at all, even my own existence seemed to be questionable and suspicious. How do we know we’re alive? Apart from physically bleeding and feeling the life drain out of us, but even those experiences can be deceiving.

I’ve been told numerous times that people like myself should talk about these things. Question: how do you do that when you can’t pull yourself up, dress and go outside? How do you talk to anyone, when all you think when you look at him or her, is that they’re judging you? Should we be casual about this, slip it in towards the end of conservation? 

‘Oh, by the way, I know we don’t chat often, but I think I’d very much like to die today. Toodle-pip!’

Or is it a more formal and black tie event? 

‘Excuse me sir, my apologies for interrupting your daily musings, but having considered the possibilities of my own future and the pointlessness of my own existence, I regret to inform you I shall be dying in the very near future. Have a nice day'. *tips hat*

If there is a set format for discussing death and your own possible suicide, please let me know. 

(Aside: I’d also like to know what in the world ‘smart casual’ means. Methinks it’s a wankerish term, made up by fence-sitters who can’t be bothered to work out whether or not they want to be formal or casual, clothed or naked, whatever. Wankers. I’ll wear a cocktail dress with converse trainers, just to irritate you.)

I’ve only ever once mentioned the prospect of dying to my own father, a few years ago now. I told him I wished I were dead, because that’s how I felt; only numbness and nothingness, more of a corpse than a living person. His response was to tell me to stop being so ‘morbid’, that depression didn’t exist; we were all a ‘pack of attention-seeking, whingers’. Needless to say, I felt something then – anger and an even greater sadness at the absolute dismissal of, what I thought to be, something rather important. We’ve never discussed it since, but no matter. His ignorance is his own folly, not mine.

But what then do you do, when you’ve attempted to reach out and tell someone that you want to die, only to be dismissed as a silly, little girl? You tend to give up, completely. I’d rather keep the thoughts in my head, have them torment me daily, than to be repudiated and mocked. This is further consolidated by the few times I’ve mentioned it to friends and been told I was being foolish, ‘not thinking straight’. Perhaps that is true; I probably wasn’t being completely rational or capable of thinking of the consequences, so I don’t begrudge those friends. Future consequences aren’t the most important thing to someone who can’t conceive of a future within them in it. Afterwards though, I understood what those friends were saying. It’s rather like slapping someone in the throes of hysteria, pouring a bucket of ice over their head or helping a panicking person to breathe. It’s not motivated by cruelty, but by necessity. I understand that. During those ‘episodes’ however, it feels like rejection and it stings. You tell someone dear you want to die, that you already are, and they slap you in the face for it and make you feel guilty. How can they be so cruel, when all you’ve done is act, in what you believed to be, their best interests? 

‘I’m a burden, a drain on you, can’t you see that? Why can’t you understand that? You must see that!’

Even now I can rationalise my past actions and motivations, while also understanding other’s reactions, even if the two seem to oppose one another. They don’t though, not really. Both sets of actions are arguably born from good intentions, different intentions, but considered the same. From my perspective, I believed I was acting in the best interests of everyone; I could take away my own pain permanently and I could and still can, take away other’s, as a burden and source of annoyance. I can’t extrapolate other’s reactions because they weren’t my own. Knowing the people involved though, I assume they had good intentions at heart, even if their words were wrongly misconstrued as cruelty and rejection then. Being ‘guilt-tripped’ and having the possible pain, you may have caused your family and friends mentioned during these ‘episodes’ hurts, a lot. It particularly hurts when you’re a bit of a sucker for other people’s feelings and susceptible to feeling guilty (lapsed Catholic). Understandable though, bucket of ice and all that, but it should be mentioned that family and friends are always considered, as are consequences. Maybe not as clearly and definitely from different perspectives, but I find it hard to believe that anyone kills themselves with the intention of causing others pain, with bitterness and hatred in their heart.

I’d argue, and from my experiences, the last thing you think of before you attempt suicide, is the most important people to you. You feel despair at the prospect of parting, but love for them and assured in your belief that it will be better for them. That’s from love, not hatred. It’s also probably why people write letters, send those last texts or messages, look at photographs, because in your last moment of living, everyone would want to be heard and to have the chance to say goodbye, even without saying the word. For me, I wanted to memorise every feature of the people I loved, hear from them one more time, call up my Mum and tell her random facts and gibberish, until she told me she had to get on with her day and ‘I’ll talk to you later, baby’, just to hear her voice. You don’t do those things with the intention of hurting those people, you do them because you love them so much that you just have to connect with them, in any way, one last time. That’s from love, not from pain or with the intention of causing them pain. You’re shielding them from pain by not saying anything. 

I’ve contemplated and failed so many times now, I don’t need goodbyes or to establish those last minute connections. I’ve failed so often the doctor would probably think it was an unlucky accident, rather than intentional, because that never seems to work for me. I’m far too guilty, sensitive and always listening to other people. I listen to them and drag myself up, keep my eyes open so I don’t fall asleep and deal with it. I hate that part the most. I hate that part more than the feeling of life leaving me, which you can feel, and more than having to face people you know afterwards, or having to be around a family that would label you a despicable sinner. 

Really, I hate everything and nothing, at the same time. I hate being a miserable sod, an awkward person, an abnormality in every way, but I can’t hate everything about myself all the time, because it makes living a bit more painful, it makes breathing a bit harder, and it makes every waking minute seem like an eternity. When I can’t do it anymore, I try and sleep. If that fails, I research and come up with my own alternatives, like a new, stricter diet and a new method of coping. My current method is simply limiting human interaction and every activity, because why speak or see people when you know you’re bothering them? When you’re nothing but a burden to them? Or perhaps I’d rather deal with the separation sooner than later, cut ties before every person realises how disturbed and damaged I am. Personally, I’d rather leave permanently, than to hear the criticisms and rejection I know are inevitably coming. They always come. That’s not black or white thinking either, that’s infinitely gray. 

Like the ridiculous phrase usually heard in regards to sport (typical), ‘the best defense is a good offense’. Although, my best defense seems to be defensive, not offensive, so perhaps my best defense isn’t, in fact, my best defense, but rather a super defense, from a fairly defensive person. I’ve got a lot to be defensive about, as you can see. 

But having written all this gibberish, perhaps my torturous interlude wasn’t so bad after all. This was. Give me sight and I’ll see colours, at least for a while. It has to be better than never seeing colours at all.