The End Is Better
I cancelled another therapy appointment. I don’t think I’m going anymore. If I can’t pinpoint what I need and what I’m in this for anymore, it’s a waste on so many levels. I’m in some kind of pain, but there’s nothing anyone else can do to help me out now. It feels like I’ve looked at all sides and I’ve heard the possibilities. There’s been so many attempts to get me to believe in the positive, but every time, I easily let it all slip from my mind. It’s weightless to me.
I didn’t know how to approach ‘getting help’ when I did finally speak up. There was nothing but a fear that has remained at the core of what I am now. It doesn’t allow me to say what I should be saying in therapy. I can’t let go. I can’t share my darker thoughts because for years I’ve felt that speaking of them is a dangerous option—one door would lead into the next and I’d surely lose all the control I only ever hope I have.
So, I cheat myself by not telling my therapist the whole truth. And I’ve had enough; I’m sick of myself. I hate how much time and money I’ve wasted, and I’m disappointed that I have not yet learned, after all this time, how to accept help. I tie it so much to meaning, while knowing I’ll never have an answer–for why I should live, for why I should care. Help is something I don’t have an idea for how to have it really sink in.
I’m tired of going through days where it seems I’m always about to fall asleep to what’s going on. Being blank about it. Watching up close but not fully taking part. There’s no desire to. And if I decide to let go all together, it feels like I know exactly how I will fall and where I will land. It’s quiet and I’m alone, surrounded by a calming cold; finished and resting, and on my way to being forgotten about.
June 29, 2009 at 9:53 pm
I don’t know what to say. I mean, what can I say that you haven’t heard already? It all seems like this fucking game to me, living and existing. I keep asking myself, ‘what for?’.
I don’t think you should go to therapy if it isn’t helping, but I have to wonder if the problem is exactly as you were saying: maybe your unwillingness to really let go and say what you need to say has more to do with this than you would think. I think I can surely see weight being lifted that way, even if at the time it would be painful for you. If you can’t go through with that, I think it is perfectly understandable, but if you are truly at the end then what harm will it do to try? Isn’t that all this is, trying? Striving for something and never having any clue as to why? I wish we could learn to take pride in our own pointlessness, but it feels like so much to ask.
Is there anything you want, anything at all but this end? It doesn’t have to finish this way, it never did, even if at times it feels so damn inevitable. We’re all ticking time bombs. This is our only chance to even try. We will never get another. And you did what you thought you couldn’t right? Why couldn’t that happen again? Is that so impossible? All you need is a little time and it will be alright. It will never be perfect, it will never be painless or worth it, but it will be alright. It won’t be so bad.
I don’t want you to die, but I don’t know what to say to convince you otherwise. Whenever I need words the most, they fail me. What do I know of this, who am I to talk? I don’t know anymore, I just don’t. All I know is that I want you to try.
June 30, 2009 at 12:57 am
You’re right. I do need some time to let this pass. I just seem to be slowing down in everything I try to do, and I can’t stop myself from getting sadder, and I’m scared silent and don’t understand.
And I apologize. My last few lines might sound as if I’ve got a plan laid out almost. I don’t, I promise. It’s just day dreaming, sick daydreaming that I only guess is another way I’m coping with all of this. Think of the worst, believe it’s a possibility, then feel better. I guess that’s how it goes. And since I don’t know what I need anymore, I may just end the meds as well, then drag myself along for as long as I can still tell the difference between my crazy thoughts and the rational ones. Maybe when I start volunteering, I’ll be distracted enough to stop living in my head for a time.
As childish as it may sound, I just don’t like living. I was too afraid to ever tell my previous therapists about being suicidal, but maybe I could have just told them what’s above and just endured the laughter or whatever else I’d have to face; feeling like more of a fool. Makes no difference. I could have everything in the world, and right now, it still wouldn’t be enough to make me feel like I have life in me. But I am going to try to figure it out anyway. Just something to do, right? Thanks. I appreciate you trying to help me. I don’t deserve it, but I do appreciate it.