Work Text:
It’s the days I’m happiest that I want to die most
I think to myself as I sink back into my chair and look out the window. The fog is drawing in and I feel the soft winter cold creeping in through the gaps in the wall. But that’s alright. Because I’m happy. Which, ironically, really makes me wish I were dead. Happy days make me wanna slash my wrists and watch me bleed. They make me wanna walk into a freezing river and sink to the ground, immersed in darkness and quiet. I… don’t know happy. Or joy. That might sound really fucking pathetic. It probably does. Because I lied. I do know happy. Hell, I know what excitement feels like, there are so many things that make me euphoric. Like, really euphoric. I get so happy my body isn’t able to just express it’s happiness the normal way. I start jumping and shaking my hands and the world is caving in as my cheeks start hurting because I just cannot stop. I can’t stop being happy, I can’t fucking control myself when I laugh. Stop. Making. Me. Laugh. I hate when I do that. Because that’s when I get careless. When my guard drops and things start impacting me. Really tearing me down, you know. I can’t allow myself to be vulnerable. Because when I get sad, I get really fucking sad. When sad is your norm. Like when the “other people wouldn’t be able to get out of bed, call in sick, cry all day and not shower all week” kind of sad is what you’ve been calling a ‘good day’ all your life. Then the bad kind of sad gets…really, really fucking bad. It takes my breath away it shuts my body down- when I get sad, I stop existing. And when I stop existing, life does whatever it wants. When I get sad, I lose control. And I can’t allow that to happen. I. am. In. control. I tighten my grip and my fingernails sink into my thigh’s soft skin. I like that. That means I exist, today. When I feel the pain, I mean.
All my life I’ve been cut and bruised, shoved and abused. They grabbed me and beat me and pushed me and pulled me and I was convinced it was normal. I mean, it frightened me. But anxiety isn’t really a bad thing when you live a life like mine. It saves you, honestly. A whole lotta trouble.
I have come to terms with living alongside all these thoughts and memories of my past. After all, they made me who I am today, right? I walk those shadows through each and every moment of my golden days. I don’t have a problem with walking my shadows. I do mind those golden days however. They just won’t stop reminding me of what I could’ve had. They won’t let me accept my fate as some depressed, pathetic being, passing through life and then peacefully dying.
Those golden days they keep nagging and dragging me near lamplights and windows. They make me realize, that candle light doesn’t only burn hot enough to let the sharp pain help forget my hollow soul for a mere second. But that its warm glow lightens up a rainy day and when you put it out the soft smokes’ smell will fill your lungs as you drift into your dreams.
Those golden days don’t make me laugh. Or cry. They don’t make me do or feel anything. They just let me exist. They show me the life I never thought I’d live long enough to see. All I ever did was survive. But I never thought about the outcome. I never thought about the fact, that if you survive – you live. And if you live, that means you’re alive. And being alive means you’re not dead.
It freaks me out. I have no. fucking. idea. What to make of life. Like… I was handed this big fucking chance, you know. And then it was ruined. The minute I was born I had to fight. I had to fight for my dear life. Until I got out. Which, by the way, I have no idea how I did that. So now I’m out and…
I don’t know how to live.