Monday, September 26, 2011


Alarm clock beeping into subconscious relief waking you to the fact that you are alive. Wishing you could turn off your life as easily as hitting the snooze button. Living the day through a haze of actions and reactions. Alone in your head your plan and plot your demise but you know you could never go through with the actions. Wishing you had the courage, the determination, and the ability to provide the relief in which you seek. The plan is complete, absolutely infallible. The location, ideal. No worry about a known person having to find you, the procedure peaceful, the result: relief. Relief from the agony you go through every day alone. Agony worse then any physical pain could be, agony only you can feel. Words can’t express the pain. Only experiencing it can make it real.

The promise that keeps your life moving forward. The promise that adds another day to your misery. The promise to never end it. Someday you wonder if the pain wont overcome the promise, if the pain does not make you say “Enough!” and you realize you’d rather be with the person you made the promise to then to keep the promise to him.

Crying out for help did nothing more but make you feel more alone, more stupid. Telling the one person you thought could possibly care about your day to day obsession with death and getting no response concretes your uselessness in life. Did he tell you to seek help? Did he tell you he wanted you to live? Did he remove the loaded gun from the nightstand? No. Nothing but a back rub. They never take you seriously. Did we ever take you seriously? Did you make me promise because you knew how much your act would pain me, how much I would want the relief you took with your hands that November night? Did you make me promise because you were struggling and you knew how much our souls were entwined and how maybe, someday I would be in the same painful place you were in? Why? Why didn’t you tell me about your pain? Why didn’t you try sharing it and letting others carry some of it?

I know why now. Because asking for help is redundant. Asking for help when no one loves you is useless. Even sharing with your spouse that every single day, several times a day, you wish you hadn’t woken up, you wish you had died in surgery, in the car accident, when your appendix ruptured. When you finally open your mouth and speak the words inside of you and the answer is… nothing. When you call the number and spend two hours talking to a stranger on the other line who gives you a referral, and you call that number and wait. Call again and wait. Call again. And finally get a human who tells you they no longer accept the referrals they received too many, call the number again. You felt so stupid, so ashamed when you did call and now you are supposed to call again? No thank you. Your doctor says what you are feeling is normal, part of miscarriage, except you have felt this way for years, you tell them, and its not simply around a miscarriage. It is around day to day life. You hate your life. You don’t want to live. But hey, you won’t kill yourself, you wont harm yourself, youll just hope something or someone will do it for you. Another referral. Another rejection. Finding a place that is supposed to help military and their dependents but being looked at like I was stupid and being told I cant use the clinic, my husband is not a residential unit.

Fuck it all. How many times can you seek help? How many times can you admit you have a problem just to be turned away, time after time. Be told there is nothing wrong with you. Be refused help before you just give up? I’ve tried more then most people would before giving up. I thought there would be some help somewhere

Isolation. Isolation from love. Isolation from reality. Alone in your head where your plans of relief, plans of escape take shape. Sitting alone on a concrete garage floor, crying into your shirt, physical reaction of the pain inside, a small symptom of how much you hurt. A two minute break from the walls and the masks you wear. Drying your eyes, clearing your throat, back to acting normal, strong, not phased by anything you have experienced, normal to those around you. Isolation from feeling a connection to anyone else and biologically incapable of producing the one connection you want in life without it you don’t want life at all.

Waiting for the snores to come before allowing yourself to exhale. To cry. The weakness that comes from those tears annoys you but you have pushed so much down inside of you that if you do not allow a physical reaction to the emotional pain to come out each night you may actually explode To hate the fact that one more day was added to this punishment, this never-ending torture called life. Nothing you want more then to fall asleep, but sleep doesn’t come. Hours on hours you think about your failures, your lack of living in your life, the constantly day to day.

Content to continue in this process. Foot after foot, moment after moment, day after day. Cook. Clean. Wash. Dry. Shower. Eat. Breathe. Sleep. Wake. It’s the same. Day to day. Pleasure exists only on the surface, doesn’t get past it. No way to get past the walls. No way in. Just the overwhelming pain that each breath of life breaths. The reminder of how stupid you are, of how inadequate, replaceable, interchangeable, unlovabale. Just existing, just moving through, one day at a time. Reckless imagination hoping for a cure to the pain, lack of courage to follow through with plans, in-between living and existing, just moving… moving… moving…

A smile. “Doing well and how are you?” socially excepted response to “how are you today?” The “Is everything ok?” and the “I’m ok.” Because you’re always ok. You’re expected to be ok. You play the role and you continue on. 

Note: I am not asking for help in this blog. I am not suicidal. I am not going to hurt myself or anyone else. I had promised to blog open and honestly... this is where I am.

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