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And as I finished up the page, the hollowness only grew. The numbness of the void, that empty hole in your chest, clawing and grasping and consuming everything it could. Overtime, it had become comforting in a way you couldn't explain. Comforting in the same way as watching the blood bead up and roll down your thighs. Comforting in the same way as when you sobbed and whimpered and clawed at your own skin after going so long with nothing but the void eating away at you. Comforting in the same way the emptiness is after not eating anything for a while.
You knew it wasn't good for you. Of course you did. You weren't stupid. You never really have been, have you? After all, if you were, all those years spent turning you into their little child prodigy would've gone to waste. All those little moments of stress, all the expectations weighing down on you, all those stares as you entered different competitions. Ever since you were 5. And so, you knew. But you wouldn't- no. You couldn't stop. It's far too late for that.
The whispers get so loud. When everything felt unbearable, when simple conversations would turn into you lashing out over the littlest thing. "Just do it. It'll be our little secret." And it was so easy. "No one has to know" They whispered relentlessly. "All you have to do is grab that knife" And it really was easy. It was so- so unbearably easy. And how could you resist? I mean, why even bother at that point? It's not like anyone cares. It's not like anybody would even bother wasting their time pitying you of all people. And so, you continue.
So, over time, the scars grow larger. Longer. Deeper. But nobody cared- so why would you? Several people knew at this point. They just don't bother even trying to help. To even spare any of their 'sympathy'. But then again- when have they actually ever tried when it comes to you?
You knew at this rate, it would consume you. Eat you up until there's not a shred of who you were before this left. A hollow, empty, shell of a person- simply waiting for the day something happens and takes away your miserable life. Yet it doesn't. You keep on living, if that's what you could even call this. You keep breathing, drinking, hardly sleeping. Proper food seemed out of the question at this point. But who cares? It's not like you do, neither did everyone else.
And so it goes on. A repeat of the same menial tasks, always seeming just too big to achieve. Not impossible, but just out of reach. Exhausting you further. Wake up, lie in bed for several hours, pretend to be okay to the people you call friends online. Because why would anyone else want to even consider being around you face to face? Get up, shower if you can, fill up your water bottle, lie in bed, maybe a granola bar if you feel up to it, and read more and more of what seems to fill up your void. The things that make the numbness feel harsher. More present. Harder to ignore. Things that were both comforting and painful. Distractions.
Crying felt impossible at this point. You could hardly feel anything, really. Sadness seemed like a foreign concept to you. It's been several months since your last breakdown. And though that seems good, your mental health just seems to keep on rapidly deteriorating. You're pretty sure you've nearly relapsed five times yesterday. In the span of 3 hours. It's not like anyone's keeping score or anything. You certainly weren't.
As you fall in and out of your depressive episodes, they seem to get longer and longer. The whispers grow into demanding screams and the days seem to drag by. Sometimes all it takes is a second of lowering your guard for it to feel like it's getting so much worse. "Hurt yourself" they would constantly say "You know you want to. It would be so easy. So nice. You know this." and so they would keep insisting. "All it takes is one slice against your throat and it will all be over. You wouldn't have to do it anymore. It's not like anyone would miss you" and sometimes it's so tempting. It sounds so nice and all you want is to be able to let you. But you won't. You can't. "coward." they would spit out at you, like it was the worst insult known to man. And they were right. They always were. You just wanted to end it all. But you were scared. Not of death, not of leaving anyone, but of the pain. You just hope someone else will do it for you. You keep on living, even if it doesn't feel like you are. Even if it feels like you're barely alive most of the time.
And as they say, being sober doesn't mean you're healed. It does not mean you're no longer addicted. And it's so easy to slip back into old habits. Like meeting a friend again after so many years. And it's so warm. So welcoming. Yet you don't. It's been 4 months and you're not sure how much longer you can make it. The voices get louder. More demanding. They want to see blood be spilled. They shout and scream for the stinging sensation. The feeling of skin being broken as the now-familiar crimson liquid spills out. And it's so loud. It hurts. You don't reach for your knife.
And as the days crawl by at a painful rate, things somehow seem to get harder. Everything seems so much more. So much harder. So tiring. And it's too much. You hate it. Everyone's too loud. The voices are too vicious. Too bloodthirsty. Your body feels wrong and even though you're sure you should've lost several kilos, it feels like you've gained weight. And you hate it. You hate yourself for letting that happen. You never do anything about it. Yet you also continue eating less than the bare minimum. You don't starve. Not entirely. It's painful. The pain in your stomach and the empty feeling in the back of your throat has started feeling so comforting. So addicting. Suddenly you can't seem to remember why anyone would ever want this feeling to go away. Your mouth salivates again as watery bile seems to rise up your throat. You ignore it. You always do.
You ate. Fuck- you ate a proper meal. She said she was proud of you. She’s going through the same thing yet she said she’s proud of you. You feel violently ill. A slightly sour taste rests heavily on your tongue. You know you shouldn’t have done that. Your body isnt used to that. Oh fuck. You heaved and retched and shook over the toilet. Your vomit clearly didn’t look normal. You were too far out of it to notice. Everything was silent. It was so quiet, for the first time in months. And for once you just sat there. No thoughts. No screaming. Just enjoying it until the smell of vomit became too much. Though you didn’t talk to anyone like you usually did, you fell asleep soundly for the first time in what felt like forever. You never noticed the blood, still staining your bathroom floor.
You were soundly asleep. What you didn’t- couldn’t have realized was that the void had grown slightly too large. Too powerful. Too quick to consume. And that’s what it did. It eats away at anything it could. It was your turn now, but you’d already known something like this was going to happen, didn’t you? Maybe you didn’t know in what way, but we all knew the ending wasn't going to be good. There’s no salvation for you. It was too late. Why didn’t you just reach out, ask for help when you could? Why would you remain silent? It’s all pointless anyways. It always has been. Right from where this problem began. We all knew it would consume you eventually. And that’s what it did. You choked on blood and awoke from your sleep. It was a slow, painful death in the way only those who have experienced drowning would understand. You didn’t get your happy end. You didn’t even get the chance to heal. It’s too late now. As you slowly drowned in your own blood, the very same thing the voices had constantly demanded, you didn’t get to fulfill your own last wish. This death wasn't on your own accord. You didn't get to say goodbye. But life was never fair, and death even less so. Regardless, finally, you slip into one last slumber. And we can only pray it’ll be restful until we join you, and see it for ourselves. But for now, goodbye.