It’s not about feeling sad
It’s about waking up in the morning and feeling defeated that your eyes opened.That your prayers of not waking up weren’t answered, that the pills didn’t work.
It’s about sitting in an empty room, not thinking about anything, not even noticing the hours slip by.
It’s not about forgetting to eat. It’s that moving your jaw to crunch down on the food in your mouth is too much effort.
It’s taking a shower for the first time in days. It’s knowing the water is flowing down your body, but you can’t feel it. You can’t feel anything.
Taking a knife to your wrist just to try to feel some sort of connection to your feelings doesn’t help either. It’s oddly satisfying to watch the blood drop to the floor, but you feel too detached to feel that connection you was craving.
You take pen to paper when you’ve found some motivation to move. You only found the motivation because you’re about to write out your goodbye letter. Not because you particularly want to, nor do you really feel the need to. But you know it will help your family and friends move on easier. As if them knowing you loved them and that you was sorry would help heal them. You aren’t sorry at all. You know you should feel guilt about leaving them, but you feel so numb to human emotion that you feel nothing. Absolutely nothing. They’re better off without you as far as you’re concerned. They won’t have the weight of their depressed daughter/sister/friend on their shoulders anymore. You tell yourself that they will feel somewhat relief that you are gone. That they no longer have to put up with your emotional detachment anymore.
It’s leaving the house one day, a dressing gown cord in your one coat pocket, the largest kitchen knife you could find in the other. You aren’t even worried that mum will notice it’s missing, it will soon be found. It’s walking for an hour until you find the place you had been looking for. You spot the tree you had found on a previous walk that you planned to hang yourself from. But then you get a call. It’s mum asking where you are and the reality kicks in so you return home for the time being.
A few weeks later you find yourself with a carrier bag over your head, hoping to suffocate yourself. That didn’t work so you wrap your dressing gown cord around your neck a few times and try to strangle yourself. But natural instincts kick in and you have to stop.
It’s shaking in bed for the third time that week because you didn’t take enough pills to kill yourself, but you took enough for them to have some sort of affect on your body.
You find yourself scouting out bridges and tall buildings, wondering if the fall will kill you, but backing out because you fear the chance you’ll be left paralyzed and stuck in your thoughts forever.
You find yourself researching ways to kill yourself correctly for hours on the internet until your battery dies.
You want to reach out and tell someone, but not knowing what to say. I reached out to someone a short while ago. I simply text; ‘I can’t do this anymore.’ I had no reply from him.
You walk the dog, but when you arrive home, you can’t even recall the walk because you were too zoned out to notice the world around you.
You feel like an absolute burden to the world. That you are simply an annoyance, just another depressed person feeling sorry for themselves in others eyes.
But you’re not. You keep getting up in the morning to fight the same fight you’ve always fought. You notice a bird chirp in the morning and it brings a smile to your face. You cry until you have no more tears to cry. You call your best friend everyday to tell her how you are. You wash your hair for the first time that week. You eat for the first time that day. You force yourself to get out of bed each morning, no matter how heart-broken you are that you woke up.
Each day it get’s a little easier.