One year ago. To this day. It was a Tuesday last year.
It still pains me to remember what I tried to do. Yet I want to bare my soul and let it all out, perhaps in some crazy kind of hope that the demons that plagued me one year ago today, will be released back into the hell from which they emerged.
It hadn’t been all that long since I wanted so badly to end my own life. But jumping was definitely my first. It was partly impulsive, partly calculated.
I won’t go into details about the events that led up to it. I won’t go into details about how I felt when I hit the ground. I remember them clearly enough, and they will probably haunt me at inopportune moments for the rest of my life, but I hope that time will fade those images in my head a little at a time, until the colours are all washed out and the tinted brown of age-old photos will no longer etch themselves so deeply into my heart and mind.
It was weeks before I could walk without crutches, months before I could run again. But even the early days, while I was still in hospital, I would push past the pain and test the limits of what I could do, forcing it sometimes, as if I could seek redemption for what I had done to myself. Enduring more unnecessary pain because, well,… because I deserved it.
One year ago. That’s all it’s been.
Not that long ago, and I still remember too much. The demons come alive today because they feed off my fear and shame.