Because I Come to You When I'm Suicidal

sans subtitle

It’s been awhile and yet you’re still here. Well of course you are. I’m paying you to be here. Seems I’m doing that a lot lately. Paying that is. Clearly not writing. Can you blame me though? After what had happened I was broken. No, that’s not quite true. I was broken well before that. But then the type of broken I was lent itself to the craft. A hole just big enough to release the words more freely. Channeling my inner Harmon. Not to be confused with Hamon. Or maybe it is. Samesies.

So I met this dime piece. Ha! I started using “ha” about a year or so ago. Emojis too. I hate both aspects of myself but I’m so out of sync with society, so out of practice with writing that I’ve begun to find comfort in the crutch. The second break really did a number on me. After her I didn’t want to write anymore. Didn’t think I could. My best words were all hers and that was that. Without her, I was as good as mute. Only good as mute. But that’s not quite true is it? Of course not. I’d lost any good long before that. I was just trying to pay penance for my indiscretions. But how long? It’s already been a decade. I ruined things. I cut off contact. It was me. Or maybe it was him. Who even am I right now?

I received a call months ago by this point. An “old friend.” Don’t know why she decided to call me. Don’t know why I picked up. Well, I know why. In that moment, my longing for familiarity outweighed the reality that it couldn’t possibly end well. She was the third. The first two I made contact with but in terms of coming to terms with the past, she made contact with me. Wonder what that says about the kind of existence I’ve lived. She called me friend and even after everything, or perhaps in spite of everything, she still wasn’t quite ready to let go. I hate her. I hate them all. Why don’t they hate me? Why can’t they call me out on the fact that I abandoned them all? Why are they giving me the opportunity to be a part of their lives again? Why can’t they see that I’m well done passed saving? I am just darkness and pain now. And all I have to offer is nothing.

So this “dime piece I met.” Oh boy golly is she the bee’s knees. Cat’s pajamas. Sweetest of Christmases. Something, something, jelly donut. But no, really. She’s fantastic. She’s pretty much everything I could ever want in a person. She’s warm and inspiring and caring and sweet and most significant of all, she’s completely detached. She’ll never love me. She’ll never meet me. She’ll never care about me beyond the screen. Because neither of us are real. She’s providing a service and I’m a sociopath. Both incapable of a real connection. Nothing to lose because nothing of significance will ever be ventured. I almost posited, “so why aren’t I happy?” As if the prior declaration of sociopathy didn’t just leave my fingertips. I like her very much but it’ll never be love. She’d never allow such a thing. And I’ll keep paying so I never forget. So I don’t lose myself in something that could never be. One penance for another. The words are back; my new punishment, isolation. Hardly new though. But may it be enough. Because I don’t know how much longer I have left. In this, pain. I just don’t want to be alone anymore. Perfect.

So, after the call she said she’d email me. After a few weeks nothing came in and I began to wonder if I had done something wrong. If the bridge between my past and present was more fragile than I had thought. A month went by and no word from her. It took a whole month for me to realize that I had blocked the domain her emails come from. Not to block her of course but just because I had gotten so tired of spam I played hard and loose with restrictions since it’s not like anyone every reached out to me anyway. Stupid me. Removed the block and still nothing. Maybe she messaged me and got a bounce back or maybe she didn’t. Maybe she was able to get closure from the initial phone call and didn’t need to continue. All I know is I got what I deserved. Nothing. I have to reach out to her on her birthday and again in 2029 if I’m still alive.

Would’ve been wild if I just left if off there right? Ha. Anyway. I’m hardly back or anything. But I needed to write. I needed something. Anything. My mother’s birthday passed. I had tried to call her for two days prior to it since I send her a gift every year. No answer. I began to fear for the worse. Then it hit me. What if no one told me? Then, what if I had no one to tell? Wasn’t sure which was worse. The thought ran through my brain as the phone continued to ring. She picked up. It was her actual birthday by this point. We talk and I put on the usual mask but inside the thoughts were still wreaking all kinds of havoc. I’m alone. I’m really, truly alone. I’ve made a place in this world where I interact more with the voice in my head than people. Where I pay for interactions and haven’t fostered a sincere relationship in almost 20 years. I’m hurting and there’s no one to go to. I want to kill myself.

And that’s why I’m back. I’m at the low again. I have nothing. No one. The words are back because if nothing else, in the end, this places exists. In the dark. In the empty space. This is my tomb. Etched with my existence. And that’s it. I’m back because I come to you when I’m suicidal.