You will meet the love of your life and then they won’t call. But at least you met them, at least you feel like writing about them.
Every time I write I feel as though I add another page to a eight years in the making suicide letter. Eight years is how long I have been sad for, and it gets tiresome to feel like this. I’m sure I could do more, go back on anti-depressants, exercise more, eat better, but I don’t want to. I would like for the suicide letter to have an end.
Let me tell you, most things aren’t what they’re cracked up to be. Falling in love with a co-worker, a neighbour, or even going to the beach. Each new and exciting and longed for thing turns out to bring issues and discomfort that I wasn’t told about through the movies and the tv shows. It’s mighty fucked up if you ask me, and according to other peoples’ social media accounts they do not experience the discomfort that I do with rite of passage, right because you earned it, good because your life doesn’t always have to be shitty type of activities. Mind you, I’ll be the first to admit these days that I’m not actually stupid and I know that social media is a farce and on a good day I can logically apply that knowledge to the other part of my brain that thinks I’m the shittiest human to have (reluctantly, fuck exercise) walked the earth. Actually on a good day I can logically think away anything that makes me feel sad and alienated such as the fact that I am overweight, mentally ill, and too lazy to learn how to do my make up properly (or at all). But to be honest I don’t even have days like this, I more have more have moments that push me out of bed or to say something that I have otherwise been too afraid to say, or the courage to say ‘yes’ instead of ‘omg no, I’m sorry I’m so busy right now’. To have days at a time with a sound and logical mind would be to really and truly have a life.
I think that it’s good to be tired and to not have to think about it all. Tired muscles and drooping eyelids and inferiority complexes and constantly questioning whether I’m legitimately dumb fills in the empty spaces.
But also there are no empty spaces and I know that now. I’m just fine and there is everything and there is nothing and it’s really fulfilling and meaningful to not always be looking for the next thing, I can just live like this. It’s not a crappy life compared to anything else if I am okay and I am happy and I am healthy.
And what happens to a life when it is lived for yourself? What happens to a life when you stop caring about what other people think of you? I think good things. I think this is what I’m going to try to do. And of course living for now, living for this day, that’s so important.
My fever broke at midnight, but still, I can barely move. My whole body is tinged a strange crimson colour and old silver stretch marks and scars look brand new. I had never felt that kind of pain before and it scares me that my body looks alien, and my feet feel funny to walk on, and that all I can stomach is white toast with butter. I feel juvenile, like everything I do, I am doing for the first time. When I walk I don’t know if I’m going to fall and when I eat it tastes so good and lumpy. When my phone buzzes I feel like I don’t know what it means, like I don’t know what to do, like I want distance from it.
These are good feelings, born from the worst.
Maybe this is all there is, babe. Maybe you need to stop focussing on not having enough and start living your life now, before it’s all gone.