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Just don't stand there and watch me fall.
15 years ago
I have spent most of my life losing. I've simply slowly come to grips with the fact that there is nothing lasting for me. Like the change of seasons, I will pass through each of them alone-- watching everything around me grow and shift, as I erode under the weather.
There is only so much one can take, before they hit the glass ceiling. The culmination of ache and loneliness, and despair. I've faked my happiness for years, for the sake of 'friends' that walked away like the turning leaves. Transient and temporary, as all else is for me.
But there are some people that you don't want to go. That you cling to and fight for that--no matter what you do to wash them away-- dig under your skin, and leave a stain etched in your veins. I let others step out of my world after being with me half of my life. I've made enemies out some of them. Others, just vanish into the river of names that flows through my mind on occasion. I don't want that to be this. I don't want to cast my heart into the water with all the ghosts.
But doing anything else is like another suicide attempt. I can't do that to myself anymore. I am not that strong, and I am not that able.
I'm burned out down to the core-- and there is nothing left to heal. The past week has been like a daze. There's the waking world, a fuzzy clouded place—and sleep. Sleep, where every wound reopens itself and I wake with a tear-damp pillow. I go from Sleep and the World with no real notable transition.
The only thing deviating from these two-worlds was a phone-call from my mother-- some distant voice on the edge of my mental-river, like a whisper over the crash of waterfall. She told me, finally, that she was putting my step-father in hospice. And for the first time in fifteen years, seemed happy. Because she had been a slave-- trapped in a house, with a man she truly didn't love, but turned to because he filled the emptiness my father left. And I realized, that is going to be me. The one precious love in my life has come and went, and left me. There will be nothing else, except some paltry attempt to put a plug in the hole that's bleeding me dry.
I will never be able to live past this love. The memory of it. The soft whispers into a receiver that carried me through years, a promise for something better.
'We're going to meet, we're going to be together. I know it. And I'm going to kiss you.'
Lies. All of it.
There is only so much one can take, before they hit the glass ceiling. The culmination of ache and loneliness, and despair. I've faked my happiness for years, for the sake of 'friends' that walked away like the turning leaves. Transient and temporary, as all else is for me.
But there are some people that you don't want to go. That you cling to and fight for that--no matter what you do to wash them away-- dig under your skin, and leave a stain etched in your veins. I let others step out of my world after being with me half of my life. I've made enemies out some of them. Others, just vanish into the river of names that flows through my mind on occasion. I don't want that to be this. I don't want to cast my heart into the water with all the ghosts.
But doing anything else is like another suicide attempt. I can't do that to myself anymore. I am not that strong, and I am not that able.
I'm burned out down to the core-- and there is nothing left to heal. The past week has been like a daze. There's the waking world, a fuzzy clouded place—and sleep. Sleep, where every wound reopens itself and I wake with a tear-damp pillow. I go from Sleep and the World with no real notable transition.
The only thing deviating from these two-worlds was a phone-call from my mother-- some distant voice on the edge of my mental-river, like a whisper over the crash of waterfall. She told me, finally, that she was putting my step-father in hospice. And for the first time in fifteen years, seemed happy. Because she had been a slave-- trapped in a house, with a man she truly didn't love, but turned to because he filled the emptiness my father left. And I realized, that is going to be me. The one precious love in my life has come and went, and left me. There will be nothing else, except some paltry attempt to put a plug in the hole that's bleeding me dry.
I will never be able to live past this love. The memory of it. The soft whispers into a receiver that carried me through years, a promise for something better.
'We're going to meet, we're going to be together. I know it. And I'm going to kiss you.'
Lies. All of it.
I don't know what to say to people in this situation. Have you tried going to a doctor?