Crevice

Somewhere tonight there is a girl wanting to die. Somewhere tonight a boy contemplates ways to hurt the pain inside him by hurting himself. I can guarantee it.  I know, because that was me.

I wanted to die so bad, but was so afraid of the process. Then three years passed and I wanted to paint the pain in physical destruction, but I didn’t necessarily want to die, I just wanted to punish myself for being alive.

Today and yesterday the sensations passed through me again. Not the thoughts. Just the numbness. The taste of black or grey in your muscle fiber. The literal ache in your chest. The empty, tight feeling in your stomach.

That feeling that you are more connected with death than alive.

Or the panic. The panic at being alone.

The panic at never being wanted. That maybe no one will ever believe, this F-ing hurts. Only, I never used that word back then when that was everyday. Barely even knew what it meant, actually. It seems appropriate though. For the strength of the pain. Nothing else is visible in those moments.

My beloved reader,

I wrote so many letters to you before I was ready. So many letters to say I know what it is to hurt. The problem was, back then I didn’t know if I was going to survive. And I knew absolutely nothing about living. Well, I knew quite a bit, but I didn’t know how to find it again.

Staying alive is the hardest part. Surviving.

Numbness just sinks into your bones and you feel alone. And whether or not you’re ready to actually go through with the dramatic plans that crop up in the mind, still the sensations roar “I am not alive. It hurts that I am alive. It would be better if I were not alive.”  But, better for who?  See, I was convinced it was better for me and everyone else.

But it wasn’t.  

There is someone out there who loves you. Who needs you. There is something out there that you like or want. Someone out there who can hear the words “This hurts more than I know how to say.” And believe me, we want to know that pain much more than know your grave.

I’ve been on both sides of the suicide game now. They both suck. When I decided to try not to die, I did it because as much as every ounce of my body said I was better dead, the pain of loss in the eyes of my friends said I was better alive.

For me, it was the desperate love of the family I struggle so much with knowing how to love that kept here. The friends who loved me so much, and hated the antics of my trying to die so much they wouldn’t leave my side. The late night simple responses, “I’m praying.” Or “Don’t be stupid. Come back inside.” The sense of walking Gethsemane’s garden with the greatest man in history and the scars he too bears forever.

For me, it’s the soft touch of my dog’s fur that brings me back right now from the numbness. It’s the promise of spring in these dark rainy storms. I don’t want to loose that. I didn’t want to loose the relief of crying.

What about you? As you hold the numb pain that needs to be heard in one hand, what’s the ray of life in the other? The taste of ice cream? Sitting in a dark room listening to music? It doesn’t have to be bright or brilliant or big. You just have to be able to touch the edges of feeling less awful.

When, in the last twenty-four hours did you feel the least dead, the most alive, and the most like the self you want to be? What was happening? What do you feel as you remember?