I’ve been having a lot of suicidal thoughts these past two weeks or so. And half of me wants someone to notice, but the smarter half of me realizes there’s no point. What would they do? I’m already taking medicine, I already see a therapist… There’s nowhere else for me to turn. But all of me wishes I was still as severely depressed as I used to be, so I would have the courage to do it; or at least know that I had the bravery—on days like today, I really think that if I didn’t have something to do, I would. Isn’t it sad, that I find myself wanting to be back in the place I worked so hard to get out of, only to desire to be back there if only to be able to find the strength to take my own life?
The stress is just getting to me, I guess. My grades suck, I’m probably getting fired, and I just feel like I can’t do anything right. I’m such a burden on my mom, as well. I know for a fact that everyone would be better off without me, after a certain point. Lately, I’ve been mad and sad every single second of my conscious time, and I’m sick of it. Maybe soon enough I’ll find the courage.
When I look back, I am not sad
I miss the discombobulated saneness and
The method to the madness.
I miss the unruly organization and
The choreographed insanity.
When I look back, I do not grieve
Rather, I smile.
I recall the pointless late nights and
The secrets traded like cards.
I recall the friendships made and broken and
The ones who came and went.
When I look back, I do not mourn
No, I merely chuckle.
I think of the never-ending struggles and
The perpetual happy endings.
I think of the roundabout vices and
The eventual cures.
When I look back, it is in joy
Tinged with a hint of regret.
I remember the controlled confusion and
The sensible hysteria.
I remember the infinite days and
The hours much too short.
When I look back, I am not sad
Simply a bit broken.
I yearn to rewind time and
Do it all again.
I yearn to try anew and
Relive a different end.
Give me one more chance to
Refresh those golden glory days.
PLEASE ONLY READ THIS IF YOU LITERALLY HATE YOURSELF IN EVERY WAY BECAUSE I’M JUST SO FUCKING MAD ABOTU BOYS ROIGHT NOW THAT I CNAT BRATHE
On her first birthday
Mom and Dad thanked God she was there
And gave her a cake and a party
Even though she was too young
To have any friends.
And on her second birthday
It became a tradition
And she got cake everywhere
Just like last year
And she was still too young
And on her fifth birthday
There was a real party
And a clown
And friends to share it with
But no one got her
The pony she asked for.
On her seventh birthday
Her parents threw her a pool party
And all her friends came
But she hit her head on the diving board
So she spent the start of her seventh year
Crying because she had almost died.
On her tenth birthday
They went to Disneyland
Because ten was a big number
And she met Mickey and Minnie
And stayed up late
And sipped Daddy’s beer
And said she’d never drink
Because it didn’t taste good.
And on her thirteenth birthday
She cried all day
Because the boy she liked
Didn’t come to her party
But her mom kissed her head
And her dad sliced her some cake
And it was okay.
On her sixteenth birthday
She didn’t have a party
But she got drunk for the first time
And woke up with a headache
And ten missed calls from her mom
Wishing she had never lived to sixteen.
And on her eighteenth birthday
She celebrated alone
With a bottle of Jack and a cupcake
Because her roommate was out
And she had a paper due the next day.
On her twenty-first birthday
She went to a bar with her friends
And drank far too much
And ended her day
Hunched over the toilet
Her new privileges.
And on her twenty-fifth birthday
She met a boy
And liked that he called her his own
And kissed him in the back of his Cadillac
With lips tasting of cheap wine
And stale cigarette smoke.
And on her twenty-sixth birthday
She cried just a little
Because no boy had told her
They loved her before.
And on her twenty-seventh birthday
The wedding planning was in full storm
So there was no time to celebrate
With more than a candle in her mashed potatoes
A dusty bottle of champagne
And a hastily-sung version
Of “Happy Birthday”.
On her thirtieth birthday
She was too tired to care
Because the baby had cried all night
So the boy who loved her held her close
And reminded her that he meant it.
And on her thirty-second birthday
She wasn’t so sure he meant it anymore
And he may have found another girl
But she said nothing
Because she was too afraid
To go it alone.
On her thirty-seventh birthday
The baby wasn’t a baby anymore
And the boy didn’t mean it anymore
But she said nothing
Because she was still too scared
To be by herself.
On her fortieth birthday
The daughter slept over at a friend’s house
And the boy slept with someone else
So she stayed up until the day was over
Watching old movies and remembering
And wondering where it had all gone wrong.
And on her forty-first birthday
The divorce papers were on file
And the daughter kept asking
When he was coming home
So she called her mother
And they went out to dinner
But neither of them said a word.
On her forty-fifth birthday
No one called but her mother
And the daughter told her to get a life
So she sat home and wondered
What life meant anymore.
And on her forty-sixth birthday
The daughter was living with the boy
And she didn’t want to live to see forty-seven
But the pills didn’t take
So she spent the start of her forty-sixth year
Crying because she was alive.
On her forty-eighth birthday
The daughter was off at college
A thousand miles away
And she was so proud of the child
But still wished she could just come home
For her birthday.
And on her forty-ninth birthday
The daughter had just graduated
The boy was there with another girl
And she had never felt so old.
On her fiftieth birthday
She was half a decade old
And the daughter came home
The boy sent her a card and a present
And for one day
Everything felt right again.
And on her fifty-second birthday
She and the boy were taking it slow again
But she was scared
And the daughter was happy
So she came home for the day
And they were a family again
If only once that year.
And on her sixtieth birthday
The boy finally decided to propose again
Wanting to combine two special days
But she said, “No, I like it like this”
And told him she loved him anyways.
On her sixty-second birthday
The daughter brought a boy home
Who the boy didn’t like
But she adored
And they pretended he was the best man
They’d ever met.
On her sixty-fourth birthday
The wedding plans were in full swing again
This time for the daughter
But she didn’t mind
Because they gave her a cupcake
And sang her the song
And she said it was the best birthday
She’d ever had.
And on her sixty-seventh birthday
The daughter brought her daughter
Who looked just like the boy
And there was a cake
For the first time in years
And the baby got it everywhere
Just like she used to.
On her sixty-eighth birthday
No one celebrated
Because cancer was the word
On everyone’s mind
And no one wanted to be happy
When there was nothing to smile about.
And on her sixty-ninth birthday
She and the boy shared a cupcake
Holding hands between all the tubes and wires
And he sang her “Happy Birthday”
Until he ran out of breath
And the nurses made her leave.
And on her seventieth birthday
The death was still fresh
So no one even acknowledged the day
Or did anything else
On her seventy-fifth birthday
The daughter had moved far away
And the boy was gone
And when people called to wish her “Happy Birthday”
She realized she had no idea
What day it even was.
And on her seventy-seventh birthday
It had been a year since diagnosis
And she still didn’t quite know
What Alzheimer’s was
And it seemed the daughter forgot
What day it was
But so did she.
And on her seventy-eighth birthday
People said it was a tragedy
That the disease was cruel
And death was cruel
But then again
So was life.
I read the backs of cereal boxes and the fine print of coupons,
The works of Tolstoy and Poe.
I read whatever words were laid before me, trivial or not,
And I read the things with no words.
I read the sadness in the indigo ocean
And the serenity in the dewy grass.
I read the loneliness of a businessman
And the excited chatter of birds conversing.
But most of all, I read myself.
And I learned that I was written in a language quite its own,
One that I have barely come to know.
I am the innocent child to your nightmare monster;
Your form takes the shape of my greatest fears, my deepest inner loathings.
Every word you say a claw, tearing at my damaged armor;
A princess can only fight so long.
This fairytale is one without a happy ending;
The damsel in distress trading in her dashing prince for slitted wrists,
Her crown of gold for a crown of thorns,
If only to feel the pain.
Not in the morbid sense of wanting to—though I must admit I fin myself there time and time again, despite my efforts to fight that darkness—but leaning more towards existential ideas, as well as trivial ones. There are the big-picture things I ponder: where do we go after death? Is the “Light” merely us being reborn into another life? Is Heaven something we should truly pursue, a place that exists not only in ancient texts and churches but in that alternate reality of dying as well? And then there are the more small-minded questions that every human wonders, our nature as people to be selfish and think about our lives more than anyone else’s: who would care if I was gone? What familiar faces would show up at my funeral, what messages would be left behind on meaningless social networking sites such as my Facebook, or my twitter? Mostly, I wonder who would claim to have been my friend, and what lies about my goodness would spread about me.
Everyone knows that, in death, you suddenly become a saint. Excluding the obvious exceptions to the rules, it is humanity’s perpetual habit to wipe clean someone’s slate the moment they have parted from earth, forgetting all of their sins in favor of the pleasant qualities they had. I’ve always wondered what kind of wonderful, ethical, fantastic person I would abruptly transform into once I was no longer around to display any notion that I am not as such. How many people, due to the exaggerated and nearly chimerical dimensions of what those close—and those not so close—to me said, would reconsider the time they didn’t spend with me when they had the chance.
Along with that, who would make an appearance at my funeral? Who would cry that I never even speculated cared about my presence on this planet? If I requested my death be celebrated and not mourned, would they comply? Probably not. No one listens to a corpse, no matter how much of a loss it was.
It’s probably sickeningly morbid for me to almost desire to die, just so I can listen to the heart-wrenching speeches about the deep loss my passing was, to know that, maybe, someone cared a little or possibly even a lot. I yearn to read headlines from a ghostly perspective; “Loss of Teen an Unexpected Tragedy,” “Only the Good Die Young,” “Town Mourns Death of Adolescent.” Just for one day, I want to be dead.
It just goes to show you, no one cares until you’re dead.