Post by Liquid_Promise on Nov 19, 2005 3:42:42 GMT -5
Hey everyone. This is my first story. It was initially written to be a poem and this is what it ended up being, a story. It's a little long, I could'nt find a way to shorten it up, I guess I had a lot to say on the subject. To form an idea of what the story is about... Suicide is a lot like a roller coaster ride you want to, no need to get off of, these are my ever rampant emotions that I tackle each time I deal with my depression to the magnitude of wanting to end my life.
I hope you guys like the piece. No I am not suicidal, not now anyways, so please do not worry as you read.
Thank you,
L_P
----
The lighting dims and I break away for only a moment, then you lean in for that kiss,
it is all I can do from looking at you funny. What could you possibly want from me now?
My fingers knobby and clumsy as I shake, what is the equivalent to an earthquake
on the rector scale of a 6.5.
My fingers worn to the bones, living out my nine lives of travesty as I know you are gone. Tears stain the cheeks of someone haggard with time brought down by a sadness fueled by ballads of sad songs, and the tugging of my broken heart. Will this never pass?
Then I begin to linger on the thoughts of an old bottle of pills as I clench the sturdy rope I hold now in my hands that can support my weight. Yes, I have a plan. There is always a plan that I reminisce all the times I have failed before. I hold the rope and the pills in my hands waiting out my nervous breakdown.
And I will break... Someday.
And when I do, I will pull the box out of the corner and retrieve its weighted down purpose.
I do not know why I wait it out, nor what or whom it is that stops me right at that crucial moment, but it does and I do. Stop that is, if only for a single breath, a solitary moment in which my life still tattered, I am barely holding on by the sheer threads of hope. I do manage though, somehow even amidst the realization that I hang by a single thread. Tiny and frail are the threads that manages to hold me in place, for now and only now, as I know distraught will re-enter my veins and I will be sent right back to this place, I almost cower from.
I slump in the darkest corner of the closet; I cry, I shed tears like a torrent of pain that never seizes to fail me. A plague of what is yet to come…
I have the courage to go through with it, I have done it many times before and still live to talk about it; If one could call this living…
I just want you home. I just want things as they were. I am tormented with happy, youthful images of what we used to be, you used to be. It crushes me to even allot a single ounce of laughter in your memory, because that is all it is. A sinking memory.
Of all that I will never hold again. The birthday parties, the weddings, the future; your future, no more. Of all these things that was life as I once knew of it. Gone!
I hear the inner whisperings of what some may claim as the jabbering of an old crazy woman, a regular lunatic, but I am not mad, insane mad with the typical meanderings of one truly crazy but mad with grief, a sad woman whose pain gets the better of her, and I only wish this hurt to end, not possible as I continue to breathe. This is how I see it. Foolish me for thinking the pain might go away some day and never be this powerful, to cripple me in such a way again, but it is a lie I tell myself so as to do God’s bidding. To live with what feels like a vice of aching torment of an old woman in a constant state of grieving, spiraling daily in my own sad madness.
These whispers say that I should quickly swallow the pills, the whole bottle and wrap that rope around the banister before I pass out, slide the noose around my precious neck then relax and allow myself to slump over, as I slowly fall into a deep sleep, one I will not awaken from, and to do so when there is a certainty no one will find me, not for days, if only I could put my feelings at ease and be so calculating but then I would be ending my life with hatred and selfishness on my parted lips, that is not why I even think on such things. It will be quick and a lot more merciful than lingering here in a merciless world, than this life I lead now.
Yes, I have a plan. There is always plan.
This hollow of weakness’ and shortcomings is only half the story.
Sorrow is much like the gloom that passes over all of us like that of a cloud; silent, illuminating, ominous, domineering and sometimes fatal when living under such conditions as insufferable. For me and those like me, it will never fade. It has become as much a part of our lives as breathing.
I am dying slowly, fading into an atmosphere of nothingness that I am willing to leave life behind me, certain that living is not meant for me, the un-chosen one, a tortured soul among the living, that I must separate myself from the world that I feel certain does not even wish to get to know me, for I will surely bring them down. Death. That appears to be the only answer to ending the pain, and protecting the world around me. Yes that is the cause I seek, it is one where I will finally be able to explore and share your laughter again and freely, where this darkened tragedy is never spoken of nor felt again. That in this blackened phase I can embrace darkness and awaken in a light that here in this life just doesn’t seem right, none of the pieces fit. I do not fit.
Always the weird one, the warped one. If people could only see the heart I carry inside, the part of me that wants to enjoy, to explore, to laugh and be among friends in the here and now, but what I have is depression to share, unwittingly, I falter in great despair. I cannot stop it, runaway from it, nor ignore and pretend it isn’t there, for it is and it is embedded deeply that the core root of my being is seared in tragedy. A tragic life whose heart continues to beat this day, but for only due in part of a miracle. Or a curse.
I will break someday, and it is in this reality that I feel so lost. The magnitude of it all should have me stymied and all I can think of, is how I will do this and why did it take me so long to face the inevitable? Yes this is a true miracle that I stand before you and write my most darkened tragedy with so many more words to spare.
A miracle or a curse? I am yet to figure that out, and still I am here, partly annoyed and relieved that I might see another day.
Hell, my own death is not up to me, this is a choice I am not allowed to make. My chance with death in the past and future are just that; chance, and perhaps by chance my agonizing heartache will soothe with time. Ah yes, time. There is far too much time that I can harp on ways for me to die, if I continue to feel… everything in this immense torturous life.
I finally stop with the whole weeping thing and replace the items from the box that contains my tools of depravity, these meaningless items do not seem so meaningless, but now it is this box and not the clouds that loom over, watching, waiting for me to go mad with grief and use the tools in urgency, my weapons for my untimely demise. I know this will take over someday and it will be my last day, and so I turn my back on the box sitting in that dark corner, when suddenly without rhyme or reason, I smile. My heart is finally calm, and yes… I am still breathing. I am still alive to continue learning how I will possibly live.
A curse or a gift made by a simple miracle? Hmm, I guess I will just have to see just how far down is this apathy, how far down inside of me, despite all of my failed attempts, despite of my plan will God let me venture before he actually sets me free? I guess I will just have to live long enough to see tomorrow, to see what really waits for me, to see my plan fall away at the seams. In its irony, I can now understand God’s little scheme as I lay my head down and dare to dream. Well, good night…
I hope you guys like the piece. No I am not suicidal, not now anyways, so please do not worry as you read.
Thank you,
L_P
----
The lighting dims and I break away for only a moment, then you lean in for that kiss,
it is all I can do from looking at you funny. What could you possibly want from me now?
My fingers knobby and clumsy as I shake, what is the equivalent to an earthquake
on the rector scale of a 6.5.
My fingers worn to the bones, living out my nine lives of travesty as I know you are gone. Tears stain the cheeks of someone haggard with time brought down by a sadness fueled by ballads of sad songs, and the tugging of my broken heart. Will this never pass?
Then I begin to linger on the thoughts of an old bottle of pills as I clench the sturdy rope I hold now in my hands that can support my weight. Yes, I have a plan. There is always a plan that I reminisce all the times I have failed before. I hold the rope and the pills in my hands waiting out my nervous breakdown.
And I will break... Someday.
And when I do, I will pull the box out of the corner and retrieve its weighted down purpose.
I do not know why I wait it out, nor what or whom it is that stops me right at that crucial moment, but it does and I do. Stop that is, if only for a single breath, a solitary moment in which my life still tattered, I am barely holding on by the sheer threads of hope. I do manage though, somehow even amidst the realization that I hang by a single thread. Tiny and frail are the threads that manages to hold me in place, for now and only now, as I know distraught will re-enter my veins and I will be sent right back to this place, I almost cower from.
I slump in the darkest corner of the closet; I cry, I shed tears like a torrent of pain that never seizes to fail me. A plague of what is yet to come…
I have the courage to go through with it, I have done it many times before and still live to talk about it; If one could call this living…
I just want you home. I just want things as they were. I am tormented with happy, youthful images of what we used to be, you used to be. It crushes me to even allot a single ounce of laughter in your memory, because that is all it is. A sinking memory.
Of all that I will never hold again. The birthday parties, the weddings, the future; your future, no more. Of all these things that was life as I once knew of it. Gone!
I hear the inner whisperings of what some may claim as the jabbering of an old crazy woman, a regular lunatic, but I am not mad, insane mad with the typical meanderings of one truly crazy but mad with grief, a sad woman whose pain gets the better of her, and I only wish this hurt to end, not possible as I continue to breathe. This is how I see it. Foolish me for thinking the pain might go away some day and never be this powerful, to cripple me in such a way again, but it is a lie I tell myself so as to do God’s bidding. To live with what feels like a vice of aching torment of an old woman in a constant state of grieving, spiraling daily in my own sad madness.
These whispers say that I should quickly swallow the pills, the whole bottle and wrap that rope around the banister before I pass out, slide the noose around my precious neck then relax and allow myself to slump over, as I slowly fall into a deep sleep, one I will not awaken from, and to do so when there is a certainty no one will find me, not for days, if only I could put my feelings at ease and be so calculating but then I would be ending my life with hatred and selfishness on my parted lips, that is not why I even think on such things. It will be quick and a lot more merciful than lingering here in a merciless world, than this life I lead now.
Yes, I have a plan. There is always plan.
This hollow of weakness’ and shortcomings is only half the story.
Sorrow is much like the gloom that passes over all of us like that of a cloud; silent, illuminating, ominous, domineering and sometimes fatal when living under such conditions as insufferable. For me and those like me, it will never fade. It has become as much a part of our lives as breathing.
I am dying slowly, fading into an atmosphere of nothingness that I am willing to leave life behind me, certain that living is not meant for me, the un-chosen one, a tortured soul among the living, that I must separate myself from the world that I feel certain does not even wish to get to know me, for I will surely bring them down. Death. That appears to be the only answer to ending the pain, and protecting the world around me. Yes that is the cause I seek, it is one where I will finally be able to explore and share your laughter again and freely, where this darkened tragedy is never spoken of nor felt again. That in this blackened phase I can embrace darkness and awaken in a light that here in this life just doesn’t seem right, none of the pieces fit. I do not fit.
Always the weird one, the warped one. If people could only see the heart I carry inside, the part of me that wants to enjoy, to explore, to laugh and be among friends in the here and now, but what I have is depression to share, unwittingly, I falter in great despair. I cannot stop it, runaway from it, nor ignore and pretend it isn’t there, for it is and it is embedded deeply that the core root of my being is seared in tragedy. A tragic life whose heart continues to beat this day, but for only due in part of a miracle. Or a curse.
I will break someday, and it is in this reality that I feel so lost. The magnitude of it all should have me stymied and all I can think of, is how I will do this and why did it take me so long to face the inevitable? Yes this is a true miracle that I stand before you and write my most darkened tragedy with so many more words to spare.
A miracle or a curse? I am yet to figure that out, and still I am here, partly annoyed and relieved that I might see another day.
Hell, my own death is not up to me, this is a choice I am not allowed to make. My chance with death in the past and future are just that; chance, and perhaps by chance my agonizing heartache will soothe with time. Ah yes, time. There is far too much time that I can harp on ways for me to die, if I continue to feel… everything in this immense torturous life.
I finally stop with the whole weeping thing and replace the items from the box that contains my tools of depravity, these meaningless items do not seem so meaningless, but now it is this box and not the clouds that loom over, watching, waiting for me to go mad with grief and use the tools in urgency, my weapons for my untimely demise. I know this will take over someday and it will be my last day, and so I turn my back on the box sitting in that dark corner, when suddenly without rhyme or reason, I smile. My heart is finally calm, and yes… I am still breathing. I am still alive to continue learning how I will possibly live.
A curse or a gift made by a simple miracle? Hmm, I guess I will just have to see just how far down is this apathy, how far down inside of me, despite all of my failed attempts, despite of my plan will God let me venture before he actually sets me free? I guess I will just have to live long enough to see tomorrow, to see what really waits for me, to see my plan fall away at the seams. In its irony, I can now understand God’s little scheme as I lay my head down and dare to dream. Well, good night…
and 
all
time for me 
echoes, hope you all are doing well 
