Sometimes I lose count of the days, the passing years. The years blend into each other. I can’t remember where I was, what I did, and I go back to my journals, the obsessive log of my daily life. Yet a part of me doesn’t want to remember, and a part of me is afraid to forget.
Every emotion, every rage, every tear, every dream, every bit of hope and agony and despair, every suicide attempt, every overdose resulting in days of oblivion. They are all recorded, for a Future Me. I used to think that if I did that, someday, the cycle of self destruction will end. Perhaps someday, everything will click into place. And I would need to record that moment. That one single momentous occasion.
I’ve had so many dark years, when the sun didn’t light the day, and left me in that cold desolate land. Sometimes I wish they were like the words in my journal, mere scratchings in the sands of time which can be erased by the winds of change.
It’s hard to remember, just as it is hard to forget. Memories are such strange things. I want to learn from them, yet most of the time this fails me. I want to relieve certain moments, and in my own stumbling steps I play it out again. And again. And again. Sometimes I’m not even aware of how self destructive I have become.
Sometimes I just want to scream at anyone who will listen, that I’m dying, and I’m afraid of this dying process, of watching this world slowly wither away, sunless days and leafless trees, wilting flowers, colourless and grey, of watching people laugh without really hearing the laughter or feeling the smile in their hearts. Trapped in a bubble glass house running out of oxygen, feeling water fill this vacuum up, knowing that it is a matter of time before I drown. And it will be a relief when I do. But meanwhile the terror does not grow any less. And what if it just goes on and on?
I will live and die,
Be born again and again
I will laugh and cry
Drowning in pain and gain.