LETTING GO

LETTING GO

The only thing that was constant and stable was the pain, and the only thing that could take the edge off of it was love. The love brought it’s own pain, it had begun as a safe spot – soft and warm, a sense of security and feeling matched with another soul. The distance of the thing, and the constraints of the external things that began to invade that initial haze of togetherness had created sharp edges and small crises of faith, that then ballooned into anxiety-ridden breaks in rationality.

The pain became a companion, maybe as addictive as the love, and after a while even the bitter taste of Xanax stopped providing the comfort of numbness. Waiting in endless cycles for a text, a call, a token of love that doesn't come, turns your mind inside out; the unknown and cryptic nature of a love that grows in the soil of intangibility, and the toxic mix of insecurity and fear. The dark thoughts creep in, the bogeyman under the bed we all feared as children, becomes real, he’s a shadow stalker and you can hear him whispering quietly in your ear that the thing you fear the most is preordained and then you wait for that first tentacle of fear to wrap itself around what’s left of you, and it starts to be a comfort – the idea of nothingness becomes appealing, a secret place, an escape plan, a resolute end that can't be dictated by external forces.

Laying in bed, you look at the bottles lined up, battalions of pills to ward away the dark place, and the bogeyman who inhabits it. The fleeting thought of the comfort they could bring, the last boundary between pain and peace… No more twisted feelings of dread and guilt for things already done, or things still undefined; the rejection you expect with a numb sense of helplessness and finality, no more heavy, painful heartbeats that pulse against the band of tightness in your chest. One last clear breath, release, and the freedom of nothingness.

Reclining in a bath or floating in a pool turns into a delightful sensory deprivation chamber, you lay into the water and hear your breaths in an echoing cadence, your heart beats faint and steady, and you close your eyes and curse the fact that your brain will never let you sink three inches below the surface and inhale the water, pushing the last bit of oxygen out of your body while your soul floats away in an invisible swirl of stars.

So many tempting thoughts, a place to rest and be untouched by the ugliness of the world you created for yourself. No sense of dread or fear, being out of step with things everyone else seems to take for granted, living in isolation but somehow surrounded by people who ultimately see you as a burden, an obligation, or an object of curiosity. A creature that lives in the shell of a human body, but that has no connection to humanity – just grief and fear and pain, as pleasure and hope become ghosts of someone you once you knew.

People pass judgements on actions and decisions you make, never knowing anything about you. Cruelty comes from directions you don't expect, and the unintentional cruelty is the worst because it underlines how detached you are from the human race, like they are throwing a rock at a stray dog, or stepping over a homeless beggar in the street. They don't see past you, they just don't see you at all because you’ve become transparent, inconsequential. A thing.

You start to wonder, when does the equation stop making sense? When does the math and logic point to an unsalvageable resolution. Cutting away from a place that you don't belong in anymore, and replacing an intuitive will to live, with the acceptance of a failure that can't be undone.

There are people who probably shouldn't be here, a Russian roulette of DNA, and we evolve into people who always seem to be living in a state of delay. Little pieces of our brains are missing, and the wistful wish to belong and to be wanted grows into a chasm of unrealized love, accomplishments, confidence, and feeling at home in the world.

I contemplate the idea of cessation, not suicide because I suspect I am already more dead than alive, but my greatest comfort comes in the idea of receding into a soft, dark place, with no light to feed into false hopes, and no noise to distract me from the relief of finally giving in or giving up.

I am tired. I am tired in my bones and muscles. I am tired of thinking. I am tired of feeling tired.

I am going to stop looking for hope, I don't believe it in any more. It makes it easier to let go when lock away your expectations.