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a-mutual-killing · 4 years

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Tell me something sad? Please? Lately I've been sort of hovering over some kind of brink and I just need /something/ and I like the way you phrase stuff whenever you post your personal stories but I really, really just need something sad I think. Please?

i’ll tell you something nice before i tell you something sad:

i’ve been in love with my friend’s brother for the longest time. i’m talking i first met him when i was around eleven and haven’t stopped being in love with him since.

anyway, a few weeks ago, he’d come into the restaurant i work at and we were making small talk when he mentioned that he’d gotten a job at the new aquarium they built the town over and how his favorite part of it is feeding the otters and just generally playing with them. we laughed over a story about how one of them bit his bum because it was upset that he hadn’t yet given it a fish. then he goes, “i’d really love to show them to you, i think you’d really enjoy it.” the way he said it made my heart fill up my entire body and turned me into a puddle because it was so fucking intimate and gentle and sweet are you kidding me. i shoved those feelings aside because it’s kind of a dick thing to flirt with your friend’s brother, especially when your friend knows you’re something of a slut. i told myself he meant it in a friendly manner.

skipping ahead to today, i found out that we’d been mutually pining over each other, repressing whatever feelings popped up because, like a bunch of idiots, we didn’t want to put his sister in a weird spot.

i’m to go with him for a private tour of the aquarium on friday and i think i’m going to sink through the floor i’m so, so, so very excited.

here’s the sad bit:

(i waffled about whether this would be the right thing to share or if it was crossing some kind of weird boundary i’d drawn between myself and this site. i’ve kind of flitted around this before, though, and i think, despite it being very personal, it’s very prevalent right now for me and it’s good to share those things. i’ll consider this as throwing it away, or donating my grief to you, used as it is, junk as it might be to anyone without the sentimental connection i have to it.)

it’s not a secret that around this time last year/early this year (the year before last, too) i was very, very seriously contemplating killing myself. what i did keep close to my chest, however, is how i worked my way through that, excluding shame and guilt, or ego and what have you.

i don’t know why this instance sticks out so prominently for me when the rest of that time blurs together, but one day i was laying in my bed, wedged between the wall and the mattress, the springs of the box spring digging into my ribs and my breath fetid and my hair greasy. i remember staring out across the garbage piled up on my floor for hours before turning away from it, disgusted by myself. my eyes fell on the ghastly rainbow ceiling fan hanging precariously over the bottom of my bed.

i had this image, vision, whatever, of pulling myself up, tossing something over the fan blades and stepping off into nothingness. i didn’t have a picture in my head of what i’d use, if it was a rope or a blanket twisted into something skinny enough to tie into a noose. i didn’t know what i was to be stepping off of, if it was my bed, an open drawer of my bureau. i just knew that it was over as soon as it had stated but i was left with this terrible uneasy feeling because i swear i felt my muscles act out those motions, felt my throat and chin screaming, the base of my neck raw. if it hadn’t been for the springs still poking me, i don’t think i would have been able to tell what was real and what was fake.

i scoffed at myself, ignoring the tears slowly leaking down my face, and turned back to my initial position, this time staring at the wall in front of me instead of my trash. i laughed about how even if the distance was great enough for me to successfully hang myself (i couldn’t tie my hair up in my room because every time i did, i’d bump it against the light bulb in the middle of that damned rainbow fixture), the fucking thing would come out of the ceiling under my weight.

i think i stared at that wall for a minute or two before my fingers started itching and my mouth felt raw from all the things trying to claw their way out of me. i sat up and lifted a pile of loose leaf paper into my lap and started writing.

i don’t know if it was that i’d remembered my older sister going to therapy and us having to write fake eulogies for her, in turn getting a letter filled with things she’d say to us before she died if she could; or if i was remembering how in a course i’d taken we’d had to write letters to people thanking them for their place in our lives, having the choice to send it or not and learning that it helps to just spit everything out sometimes; maybe it was something reminding me that my youngest sibling used to always tell me i should write an autobiography or something; but for whatever reason, what i wrote was a letter to my youngest sibling. i felt better after i’d written it. i started writing letters to them constantly, sometimes daily, sometimes spaced over weeks or months.

this is a a chunk from the one i wrote january 30th, 2019, the only bit of it i have in my possession, actually (some parts of it might be confusing because i’m not giving you the background pieces required to really sink into it, but i don’t think that’s important):

Looking back, life seems somewhat easy, doesn’t it? Or have I wrapped an ugly thing once more in a beautiful packaging, decorated a molding cake in bright coloring to hide the fact that it is, indeed, rotted? I have a propensity to do so.

I know there must have been bad times, just as there must be something I have a fond memory of, but they all just blur together. I know bad things have happened - I can recount them. I know there have been good experiences - I can recall those, too. I can’t, though, remember the emotions in them beyond what I imagine life through the eyes of a doll would be. Surely I have laughed and cried, but the constant pressure in my head makes those times feel dull and unreal. It’s dissociation, I know. I wonder who I would be without it, if I didn’t feel strangely removed from everything. Every time I smile, it feels like something is pulling up the corners of my mouth from over my shoulders. It’s hard to cry.

Sometimes, I think about the way you seem hesitant to laugh. I take in the way you avoid people’s gazes one day and then make nothing but eye contact the next. I wonder if you’ve experienced the same things I have. Has anybody told you your laugh is too big? Your eyes are too unsettling? I know they’ve tried to shame the anger out of you. I’m glad they haven’t managed that yet. Your anger is, sometimes, the only thing you have to keep you going, and there should never be a moment where you are ashamed of that.

I wonder, too, if I’m just weak. I know it’s embarrassing for me to look at my younger [sibling] and envy the way you seem to carry on despite the weight laid over your shoulders. It should be the other way around, shouldn’t it? You most definitely shouldn’t have had to grow up so fast. I wonder if you will be drawn into the same deep pond i’m currently tied to the bottom of. Will you surround yourself with stuffed animals and soft blankets with even softer pajamas just to give you a tactile reminder that the world is real, that you are real? I hope not. One of the things I hate most about myself is the way I can never seem to get over stroking my fingers across surfaces just to experience their presence and therefore know that my own is real.

I wonder when I become so needy? When did I start needing to feel things just to assure myself of my own being? I remember life used to unapologetically fill every crater in my being; I used to take up more space than I needed and laugh at the people who would push me to be smaller; my laugh would be as loud as my joy was big; my eyes were just my eyes. I wonder when my shoulders gained this stoop. When did my laugh change from earth shattering to airy? Why are my eyes no longer just eyes?

My hands are no longer steady, like they were the first letter to you. My eyes are still dry, though there is a prickling behind my lids. My organs have stopped trying to push their way out of my mouth - they’ve settled for the base of my throat, and to be curled in my sternum. Is it the thought of weakness that’s making it so? Is it the thought of how you might take it? Is my body trying to tell my mind it’s not ready to die just yet? I wonder why being weak unsettles me more than the thought of death. Is it because death hasn’t been a stranger to me in such a long time? You and he have crossed paths more often than you should have, as well. Do you no longer shy away from his company?

Uncle John died not but thirty-six days ago. You’ve had friends die. Will it crush you if your sister dies, as well? I hope not. It isn’t your fault. Your grief shouldn’t be your ruin.

Should I tell you some of my grief? I’ve carried it around for a while. Maybe it will help you to know about it. Maybe not. I don’t know if I’m ready for anyone to know it so intimately. Perhaps that’s why I’ve gotten to this point. I can’t exactly hate myself for it. I’ve always been greedy - what’s one more thing to keep for myself?

[whatever i’d written between these is lost to me]

Regardless of how I’ve treated you, know that I’ve cherished you.

Regretfully,

[My Name]

this is from march 25th, 2019:

It’s 10:44 p.m. right now. I woke up three hours ago. I know I won’t fall asleep for another nineteen.

I’m so cold. All the time. “That’s nothing new, [My Name],” you’ll say, “you’re always cold.” This is different. It doesn’t go away, no matter how many layers I put on or how close I sit to the heater, it doesn’t go away. Maybe it’s inaccurate to call it a chill. There’s just this wrongness settled in my flesh that I can’t get rid of. It makes my fingertips tingle.

I’ve just finished crying into a bowl of cucumbers - the only thing I’ve eaten today. It was over a TED talk, but I’m not so sure how much of it was because of the talk and how much of it was because of me.

those are the only bits i have with me here and, see, i’ve since stopped writing those ‘letters’ (😂 in the one from march, i go on a tangent about how i’m not even sure what i’m writing anymore, or who i am writing them for)–i can’t even remember when the last time i did was–but the thing that’s nausea inducing about the whole thing is that the rest of whatever i’d written is still in my room, at my parents house. the room that they’ve been steadily pawing through for the past however long. my mother is going to read those letters and for some reason i feel disgusted thinking about it.

maybe it’s only sad for me, personally, but who knows, bro.

#anonymous #tw: suicidal ideation #long post #if youd like to chat about whats bugging you im always around dude #and im sorry its not a story i just dont think i have the mental fortitude to pick apart my grief and package it like i do those #like it hurts to dwell on that part of my life and its all so hazy anyway that i barely remember what happened #hopefully you got whatever you wanted though #i hate those precipical moments

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