It’s hard to explain what it feels like to flirt with death. I guess when you can’t feel anything it’s the only thing that makes you feel something. And even the worst something is better than nothing at all.
I know how fast I need to be driving to ensure a fatal collision with a tree. I know how high a building needs to be to make it a certainty that if I step off I’ll be gone. I know how fast a train needs to be going so that if I throw myself in front of it I’ll die instantly. I haven’t yet figured out exactly how many pills I need to take to make it a sure thing, evidenced by the fact that I’m still here.
Sometimes when I’m standing numbed in a crowd the only thing that can snap me into the moment is the heart pounding temptation to step into traffic. To just let go and give up. To finally be done.
Because how long do you think I can fight my own brain? How long can I be passed from one doctor to the next and the next and the next and slowly realize that none of them know how to help me? That their useless words comfort neither of us. Mental illness is the biggest field I know of that has the least answers and I’m so tired of it. The uncertainty. The endless not knowing. The unfixableness of me.
I keep fighting. I stay. For my loved ones. For my family. For my children. For you, reading this and looking for your own answers.
I will rise out of this darkness again, I hope. In the meantime I pray for something to take my pain. I clutch my pillow tight and I hold on. I wait. For that lost piece of me to return. All the while knowing I’ll have to do it again and again with nothing to ease me. Nothing to gentle this battle. No peacekeeper coming to show me my worth or a cure to wait for.
Just me. Curled tightly in this bed. Holding on. Waiting for a reason. Flirting with death, while her enticing embrace laps gently at the edge of my lonely refuge and the temptation grows.