I've been having a really sad imaginary conversation about me an K. I'm on a roof top, getting ready to jump and I invited him to come join me, not to die of course, but for one last conversation. In my mind he's trying to talk me out of it, but I smile calmly and tell him that he can't, that he's gonna let me jump. Do I want to die? Right now, I can't say that it's not alluring. Well I could, but that would be lying.
I would tell him that I didn't want to try to live his life, that all I could do was watching it, from afar. I can't intervene, or even interact anymore. I'm just a shadow, a ghost lingering between the world of the dead and the world of the living. And even though he's still alive, his spirit is somehow haunting me.
Scentless, soundless, but there somehow. His spirit, haunting me, is like my oxygen. And right now I'm trying to figure out how to be alive like this. I do want to die, I really think I do, but it's not worth it. It's not worth the trouble of finding a spot and then give it all up in one last step.
I know I'm not done living yet, but it just hurts too much right now. Although I can just barely feel it. As I try to remember what his hair felt like on my face that one time, or his hand in mine that other one time, if I could only remember his scent. But I can't.
The only way I could let go is to die, and I know that if I allow myself to feel, I'll be planning suicide again. So I won't, scared of hurting him and everyone else that I love and at least like me back, if I do so. But the choice has to be mine, hasn't it? Sometimes I wonder.
I'm not myself anymore, I haven't been for a long time, forever, in fact. I'm a property of a rotten society and all my stupid dreams break like soap bubbles. So brittle they are, barely even worth holding on to.
Now I'm glad I never sent that question to K, about why he stopped talking to me. I'll send another one, soon, about why we can't at least just be friends? He might not want me "that way" but his friendship alone is too precious for me to lose.
If I can't have his love, at least I just want to be friends. That's way better than nothing, if only I can sort myself out again, if only I could. The image of my possible suicide still lingers in my mind, how soothing it is to me, as much as it scares me too. Dreading that the next time I go to the main land I'll do it. Cause Gotland may lack high roof tops, but Stockholm sure doesn't.
I could find a very tall hotel building, rent a room on the top floor and try to find a way up to the roof when time draws near. Damn, I'm already planning although I said I wouldn't do that. I need to get these thoughts out of my mind, focus on something more healthy to rant about instead.
But I lost my heart again, and my flickering flame is dying. For real this time, how long can I live without a spark? My eyes already literally lost their colour, they're not magnetic green anymore, they're grey. They're dead, their spark is gone. For shallow living, I have nothing to hold on to anymore. It feels like I'm drifting into outer space, just lost, lost, lost.
I couldn't focus any longer on anything. Just started staring at random points in my living room, until I eventually managed to go back to writing again. Just puking it all out, what else can I possibly do about this fucked up situation?!
I switched Sisters of Mercy for Alice Cooper but I can't feel the music. I'm just dead inside. I can't cry, I can't scream, although I might really need to. Both, simultaneously. Instead I just sit here, lightly shake my head to not get dizzy, slowly smoking a cigarette and finishing a 6th cup of coffee. Every drag is so hollow, the smoke neither harms or soothes me anymore. Can nothing ever soothe me?
What should I even pray for? I have a god, I have a religion, but nothing to pray for. I'm dying, but maybe suicidal people have no words left, and that's why they're suicidal. Cause they've got nothing more to say. Ann Heberlein wrote about that when she was suicidal she couldn't write, that her words failed her. It's important because she's a famous writer and literally lives on her words. But that they just end for her... I don't know.
My words often fail me, but they never end. Not even when I'm suicidal. I've written many suicide letters and most of them have been quite long and included a lot of various things. My reasons, all the love I wanted to give my loved ones, how I want them to dispose of my body once I'm gone and so on. It's a heck of a business trying to figure out what my last words should be.
I've been wanting to write another one, but I don't want to take that step. I think that if I do, it would lead me closer to actually committing suicide, and I still, somehow, don't really want that. I've failed too many times already, but the thought of death... it's so fucking constant.
Almost more constant than the thought of K. Just almost, though. I'm still empty, but screaming and crying inside, I refuse to let it out, the incredible damage it could make. I imagine myself completely ruining my apartment, tearing down every single wall and smashing everything into pieces until nothing is left.
I'd rather just smoke, write and listen to music that just can't get loud enough. I desperately press my head phones tighter onto my ears, desperately try to... I don't know, something. I'm desperate, that much I know. Desperate to find a way to handle this without dying. I don't know how.
My heart is breaking and I've forgotten how to breathe. I'm so scared of my own feelings, you have no fucking idea, how dangerous they are. Better keep them at a distance, better keep everything at a distance from me for a while.
I imagined taking smoking breaks however much I want to at school today, cause I just don't care, about how damn inconvenient my smoking is for the rest of the class.
I need my damn nicotine, literally to survive, I can't breathe without the smoke. I can barely breathe with it. It's just getting heavier inside, the closer the night comes and the more I write about it. I don't care, let the storm come, I don't care.
I managed to eat a sandwich yesterday, and some chocolate today, and that's all I've eaten since Saturday. If this makes me fall back into starvation, I don't care. It feels like my whole life is over so why should I care? I am cigarette smoke and heartache, there's nothing else left of me.
But I know since before, that I can live like that too. I've gone through worse, I've gone through much worse things than this. Catch 22's and living completely without hope at the same time, a simple heartbreak can't top that. Rape and sexual assault, it can't top that either. The only thing is, those were external things that more or less happened to me, around me, they attacked me. This, this is me breaking down from the inside.
It is different. I don't know why, but of all the horrible things I've gone through, that catch 22 thing the summer before last, and my 9th heartbreak were the worst. The other two things possibly come 3rd, after all. Maybe knowing that this is all my own fault, my heartbreak, is what's making it... unlivable.
I love you K, and I wish I could tell you that. Maybe in my suicide letter, whenever I decide to eventually go for it, hopefully years from now, I can mention who my heart had beat for. I just need you to know, somehow, but mostly I want you to know in a good way. Like, I don't know, love is positive, right? Right...?
And all my scars tell the opposite. My first self harm scars tell the opposite, my first suicide attempt that no longer shows on my left arm. Or was it my right arm? I can't even remember that much.
I wrote most of this text yesterday and it ended rather abruptly. I feel as though I should add something, but I'm at a loss for words. I'll get back to you later though, as I'm already writing yet another entry.
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