Confessions of a dead girl 8

8. Diary Entry 4: Being manic depressive




It's not so hard to turn suicidal. It's not inconceivable to imagine dying. I dunno if it's due to my depression or simply because I've always been such a quitter. I feel such loathe for myself at times, such wracking guilt and such repulsion for this life that I've created for myself. I know that the others around me are not responsible, but I'm so tired. And this is so bad. I feel nauseated. I dunno what to do about it. Never in my life have I felt suicidal to the extent where it becomes a real possibility. At times like this, it's almost like I can do it. I can try and succeed. And if I do it, I won't even have to stick around and answer to all those whom my absence will affect, wreck their life as it might.
Why is it like that we have 'strings attached'? Why isn't my life mine to end or do whatever with, as I want? Why are we always responsible, answerable? Why do we, even in helplessness have to tolerate it all, just due to the thoughts of them?


Now I can sorta understand why depressed people suffer alone. It's just so odd to talk about it. It's not that the people around you are not understanding. It's just that it sounds so melodramatic and somehow, pointless. You're depressed, how does that sound? You cannot give a reason for it, maybe because it's something you're mostly not consciously aware of, or maybe because so many of them just overlap that you don't know what it really is about. But most importantly, it simply doesn't matter. It just doesn't matter even a effing bit. Why on earth is anyone supposed to justify sadness? It just IS that way. You didn't start it, you cannot make it go away and while others have more concrete problems, you're depressed. You're crying at every little thing; you're dreaming of escaping from life. It's an even worse guilt-inducing thing. Hence we suffer alone.


Things get momentarily better, when you're distracted. But when left by yourself, a sudden thing can push you under again. It's just that helpless. You go out, you talk, you laugh with other people, it plugs out the numbness for once, but in the absence of it all, everything turns just as meaningless and gray as ever. Nothing's really worth enough to keep you hooked on to life. 


Not always do people cut short their lives for a reason. It's also sometimes for the lack of reasons to go on.


Everyone is there, right beside you, all the time, for so long. They think you're fine. And yet, they never know what you're really like; what you're going through. And how long you plan to last for. I bet it's a real jolt when they get to know that the person they knew is gone after a long period of suffering and they didn't even have an inkling of that. They had thought all along that all was well, or worse still hadn't even ever spared a thought. 


It's such a creepy, disgusting condition. It would feel good to feel happy, genuinely, totally happy. Do I have reasons for that? Even if I do, I cannot bring them to mind and feel them.  It's like there are dementors somewhere close by, sucking out my happiness, until nothing remains, just rot and ugly pictures and unforgotten memories and all the hard, inconvenient details of my life that I'd rather not think of. It would be so much easier to cut myself off. If only there weren't things pulling me back. But then, it's just a matter of deciding whether I care enough about cutting myself loose, or caring about them and staying put and hating everything every moment. In any case, considering where I'm going, it shouldn't really matter, should it?  Is it worth bearing it? What really decides worth?


What happened to my love for life? Why do I think of death, dying so often? Why is it that I don't want to live anymore? When I think of all the things I'd rather be doing and am not able to; when I remember all the seemingly-forgotten dreams that have no way of coming around; when I think of how I don't want to be here and living this life. It's becoming a crappy life to lead with this cycle of sick thoughts and that morbid, relentless want.




to be continued...