The Day My Life Won't End

The other day I was prompted to, as happens quite often, delve into all my shit and throw things out.  I would classify myself as completely the opposite of a hoarder, whatever that may be.  Lack of emotional connection to inanimate objects has always been a thing for me.  Sure, this blanket was given to me by my now deceased grandmother, but it's old and tattered.  Replace and move on.  It doesn't mean I'm disrespecting or demeaning any value she gave my life; it means I have my memories, and the moments in time spent with her that shaped me who I am to remember, not the basketball team blanket she gave me for my whatever'th birthday.

During my clean out, I came across something rather interesting and almost disturbing.  Now it is not infrequent that I find things that I have no memory of writing, but this was different.  Yes, it was what appeared to be a poem, but not in the usual form of writing, nor on a generally accepted writing surface.  On a crinkled up old, seemingly scrap piece of paper from class, large writing in bold, bright red ink reads as follows:

I'm sorry for the pain I caused
I leave this place with no applause
I'm saddened as I contemplate
My heart is blank an empty slate
I'm sorry but I must go
No more feelings can I show
I deadened that I cannot cry
Even when I say goodbye...

Yeah. YEAH.  I'm no scientist or anything, but I'm pretty sure that's a suicide note.  What the hell?! I thought to myself.  When did I even write this, or when did I even feel this horrible to incite such writing?!  I was in such shock and awe that I just stared at this paper in my hand for what seemed an hour until my mother walked in and I replaced it back in the door in shame.  I cannot believe that at one point in time I was weak enough to actually consider taking my own life.  No situation in your life is ever bad enough for that to be the logical solution.  Sure, I have thought to myself that it would just be easier to die than to deal with what I'm going through, but that's what DEALING is.  You deal, you move on, you grow up.  

Now I've had to deal with a lot in my life, even recently.  I hid things rather well when I want to, but to some it can still be pretty obvious.  While I was still having fun sometimes and being myself, plenty of people had witnessed my alcohol induced breakdowns.  Let me tell ya folks, being unemployed is not the tits.  Having to rely on your friends to have one morsel of fun in the cookie of life makes you feel like such a loser.  Pile on top of that being in love with an insensitive, past-dwelling, ex-boyfriend controlled man who strings you along....and well...I kinda lost it a few times.  Mostly in the privacy of my own home, but it did creep out a bit when the alcohol had lubed the hinges slightly.  

Never, though, NEVER is it ok to kill yourself over love.  Fuck Romeo and Juliet.  They knew each other for like 4 days, a week at tops, and you know what that week gave them?  Death.  At the beginning of it Romeo was all being a whiny bitch about some other slut that wouldn't love him.  Screw that.  I don't care if I'm with you for 27 years, that is just the lamest thing ever....Life is for you to live, but it's yours to live, and you share it with others.  They should feel lucky that you are, in fact, sharing it with them, so if they decide to tap out, that's their damn problem.

In any case that you may feel like ending things is the best option, I encourage you to reach out.  I'm assuming I did as I have no recollection of this letter, but if you can't be brave enough to reach out to a professional, at least reach out to someone.  Reach out to me...even if I hate you I'll still help you to live just so I can hate you longer.  :)