All of the sudden I forgot that I was breathing.
I forgot that I was living and feeling okay.
Maybe I just didn't realize that's what stable meant at least I didn't until now.
Now when it's beyond too late and everything has crumbled to nothing on my fingertips.
I keep finding myself wondering what if what if.
And in that question there is such a profound sense of romance; a disgusting amount of want.
What if this is the last time they ever see me?
Will this be the last drawing I ever make?
If I succeed will he hate me?
All of these wicked little questions probing and prodding feelings I haven't recognized in over a year.
It feels like such a long time.
Considering my history with subject of suicide this shouldn't feel like a shock.
I should have gotten used to the random onsets of impulsive behaviors.
Fantasizing about my own death is nothing new by any means.
It's just not common for me anymore.
I am not happy and I don't think I properly understand that feeling but for a moment; a precious few seconds, I got a taste of pure blissful neutral.
Not actively suicidal- not actively recovering.
A little limbo of not-quite-almost-sick-but-no-where-near-well.
And with all things considered it wasn't nearly as pleasant as healthy would seem to have been.
But comparatively I think I would rather go back to that.
I wished for this though so I guess now is the time to shut the fuck up and reap what I have sown.
But maybe I forgot what constant agony felt like.
Maybe I thought it wouldn't hurt quite so much this time and I would get used to- maybe eventually appreciate the misery.
But who can see any kind of beauty in their own torment?
How could this possibly provide any kind of enjoyment?
There is no justification in mental illness.
There is no glamour or glory.
Nothing comes from this.
I wish I could say that my suffrage brought out the best in me.
That perhaps it made me more kind or creative.
If I could spin my martyrdom into majestic works of art then I probably wouldn't be so repulsively bitter.
I can't turn pain into poetry or stitch patchwork paintings with my scarred flesh.
I have smoked away a pack of cigarettes in less than four days.
I picked up my old habit of grinding out my frustrations into my skin with every cigarette I light.
I keep trying to find some semblance of apathy or maybe just a moment of peaceful stability but nothing.
It all feels so empty and I'm getting tired of counting the friends I don't have and the people who stopped caring.
I've run out of hands and honestly I'd rather find the numerical value of my pill stash.
At least that feels a little more gratifying.
