I have never met Jennifer but her video made the hairs on my back stand on edge, my throat constrict, because these could have been my words, all my words. Thank you. Thank you for making me cry, for letting me know, I am not alone. That for the many that cannot see me, there are all of you, invisible, but there.
My title, existence is the crux of my days. As happy as I may seem, I am existing. I get up each and everyday to exist, to make it to the next, to see my children smile, to make sure they don’t live with the scars of a dead mother. But, of course, I don’t always succeed, 2 suicide attempts, time spent in the ward, almost committed by the state forever. A danger to myself they said. Yes. True. And still am, because it’s hard, it’s hard to struggle not able to ever live life without warnings, boundaries, drugs, caution, thought, and discipline. I’m a penned in animal, harnessed and tied for my own safety. You think I’m selfish for wanting to die, but you’re selfish for not letting me. This fight isn’t for me, it’s for you, all of you, you who could not bear the guilt of seeing my death, but can bear the brunt of my suffering because you can’t see it, and what you can’t see cannot effect you. My physical death is too much for you, but you can’t feel the internal lacerations, it’s so much harder than death, it’s a tiny piece of death everyday inside, that I bandage on the outside so pretty with smiles for you. Because this is what you want, you don’t want to see the ugly, you want to know i am well, I am recovering, I am trying, I look so good, but I come home and cry, alone, when no one is here.
I hide, I hide when I’m hurting, I hide when I can’t pretend, because you have questions and you want answers and you want me to talk and you want to reason and you want to explain. SHUT UP. You will never know, you can’t TALK me out of a disease as much as you can talk someone out of diabetes. Would you tell them to talk??? Would it make them better?? FUCK NO, they’re still fucking diabetic. So just understand, you can’t fix me, all I want is for you to understand, understand that though it looks fine, it never is, that what seems effortless is work, what you take for granted I don’t know how to do. I don’t know how to live, to want to live, I work to live.
Don’t ask me what’s wrong, it’s always something wrong, what answer do you want? Would you understand that my insides are hollow, that I ache, that the merest altercation takes a momentous amount of energy to surmount? That minor stress is equivalent to taming a beast, so take 3 stressors and it’s the weight of the world. That I am so much more tired for always thinking, always hearing the voices, that while I talk to you, I talk 3 more conversations in my head to just talk normally to you. That fingers dig deep into me, long nails piercing my heart like daggers and words don’t come. That when it happens I just want to curl into a ball and cry the pain out till I’m ragged, and when that’s not enough I want the physical pain to over ride the mental pain so I cut.
How do I explain that death feels like Nirvana, an end, a quiet, peaceful cessation of every single trigger turning off, forever. Peace. People wish for heaven, death to me seems like my heaven. A good bye to a cruel world.