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I hardly brush my teeth or shower. I hardly eat. I don’t sleep all night, then sleep all day, waking up and then wishing I didn’t at late noon.
I use razor blades to cut through my skin when I want to live, and tighten belts around my neck when I'm suicidal. I play with the idea of overdosing by holding many different small pills in my hands, wondering what it would be like to take them all in that moment. I don’t find myself doing it though, cowering out and feeling unsatisfied when I don’t go through with the deed.
All of this behaviour is normalised for me, Matsuno Ichimatsu.
And I can tell the others have noticed that something has been off with me.
When I find myself disassociating sitting in my corner, Jyushimatsu would come over wordlessly and sit beside me, keeping me company.
When I don’t wake up in the morning, Choromatsu would sometimes come into the bedroom in the afternoon and tries to help wake me up and out of the futon.
When I spend too much time in the bathroom with the door locked, Karamatsu knocks on the door to ask if I’m alright. He’d also sometimes bring snacks to me if he’s noticed I hadn’t eaten anything that day.
When I go out for wonderless walks and the afternoon sun goes down over the horizon and the sky goes dark, Osomatsu would sometimes find me and take me back home, wherever I am.
When I’m in the lounge room along with the others and playing with the cats lazily, I see Todomatsu casting me worried looks every now and again. He never says anything, but I think he wants to.
In fact, none of them confront me with anything. Not a word is spoken to me about my declining life.
But they notice. And I feel a guilty pleasure in knowing that. How disgusting of me.
I thought they would ask why I don’t go with them to the bathhouse anymore. I thought they would wonder what I was doing in the bathroom for all those hours. I thought they’d be curious as to why I wake up as late as I do, why I eat less every day, why I cry myself to sleep some nights.
But nothing is said.
Maybe they just don’t know how to confront it or bring it up.
Maybe they’re scared of the answer. Or of me.
But then again, this has been going on for a long time now. I’ve grown used to this entire situation in its whole.
I continue to do these same things every day and hate myself for it. Despise myself for it. Wishing I didn’t live like this anymore and wondering, constantly wondering, why I am like I am. Why I do what I do.
But then again, since I’ve grown used to doing all of these self-destructive habits every single fucking day, I don’t know what else I would be doing instead. I use all of this to cope with being alive because it fucking works . I need to cope with being alive because I’m useless and my brain and body don't want to live.
What would I do if someone did approach me to ask me to be nicer to myself? I’d probably tell them to fuck off and mind their own business.
But that’s not what I actually want. I want them to pry . I want them to ignore my hostility, I want them to crack open my skull and peer into my thoughts, into my mind, to see how fucked up I am, to see my disgusting flaws and habits and stay and want to help me .
But that won’t happen.
They won’t pry into my personal business with my mental health and fucked up behaviour, and I won’t bring it up first. It’s a battle that’s already been lost for me.
I’ve lost this whole war, even if it is all made up inside my head.
One day, someone is going to walk into a room that holds my own decaying, disgusting, worthless corpse, and I’ll be a corpse because of my own doing. Because I didn’t reach out for help when I really needed it, because others didn’t reach out to me when they noticed I had been doing terribly.
Because I almost physically can’t put my thoughts and emotions into formable words that’d make sense to other people, that’d make them understand my side. It’s so much effort to form a single sentence describing how I am feeling at any current time.
So, it’d be of no use to reach for help when I can’t even talk properly.
So, I’ll continue my dirty ways.
I’ll continue to cut.
I’ll continue to starve.
I’ll continue to sleep my days away.
And I’ll continue to idolize suicide and put it on a pedestal so that whenever I finally decide I can no longer handle being alive, I’ll know I can turn to that.
And that in itself is somewhat comforting to me.
And the others can watch me from afar, sometimes giving me a hand at life when they think it’s necessary. But that’s all they’ll do. That’s all that’ll happen.
They can live in their blissful ignorance, living their life easier than me, yet not helping me to achieve the same.
While I am at a stalemate.