I don’t get to
If I were younger, then maybe. But I’m not young. I’m not even somewhere in the middle, I am worn and grey and exhausted both physically and emotionally. Giving it another go? Nah. I’m past it. I’m willing to leave second, third and fourth chances to those with an actual chance at happiness.
You youngsters, you go for it. You go to therapy, you give rewiring your brain a chance – because for you it will work.
You young folk to have a chance.
I’m still in that lost, empty black hole of not belonging and at close to retirement age, I am not suddenly going to be a part of something, despite what my enthusiastic young doctor says, I am not going to get well enough to give love another chance. Nor life.
I don’t get to find my prince.
I don’t get to be romanced.
I don’t get to have fairytales and happy endings.
I don’t get to hold hands with someone or walk by their side.
I’m too damaged for that now.
I don’t get to climb mountains.
I don’t get to sail the globe.
I don’t get to ride along the beach at sunset.
I don’t get to have poetry and music and light.
I don’t get to learn to play a musical instrument.
I don’t get to cook pretty, dainty dishes that seduce the eyes and the palette although I like doing that.
I don’t get to entertain or go to dinner parties or barbeques or over to a friend’s house because I don’t get to have friends.
I don’t get to belong.
Because I have never belonged.
I don’t get to let go of my fear of water and learn to swim.
I’m a brick, like my mother before me.
She drowned. Not literally but … she chased this crazy impossible dream of healing and chance and life … she died.
She believed … it didn’t work.
That doesn’t mean I’m going to go now; it doesn’t mean I am going to shuffle off this mortal coil; I can’t. I just quit attempts at treatment and therapy and will continue to exist …
Two sons; one out of two brothers; one aunt and one ex-husband.
They want me to stay. I believe them. And I believe in them. They are beautiful people.
I am angry at them for that. Mad at all of them. For not letting me find my peace. For not understanding that my time is up.
If I were a dog, it would be ok.
But I am a human, and as a human, I don’t get to choose.
I have to remind myself to stay. All the time.
I watch things with warnings; TV series’ and movies and anything and everything that contains warnings saying not to watch if you are depressed, etc.… I watch them so that I can see characters, fictional people trying to portray the pain of families and friends of people who commit suicide.
I watch documentaries on failed suicide so that I can see what happens if it doesn’t work.
Not to make myself feel worse, because I honestly couldn’t feel any worse than I do – but to remind me that I don’t want to hurt those two sons, one brother, one aunt and one ex-husband.
Everyone else just spouts politically correct mealy-mouthed nonsense to validate their own self-image.
No-one actually, really cares. Pretending is just the right thing to do.
Life is a lie.
The world is a stage, and yes that is a pathetic old saying, but even pathetic old sayings contain truth. Because with age does come wisdom and old sayings are the wisdom and the people, the people here are just actors. They only play roles to make the shadows behind the eyes in the reflections of their mirrors give them the validation they need.
People are fake and cowardly.
There is no longer authenticity. Mirrors, social media, drugs, acolytes … cowards, always cowards, fear of being themselves, fear of being differentiated by speaking up for the different and the oppressed; hiding the smell of fear of living, of being, of facing their true selves and dealing with the fragility of their own forgivable, lovable imperfections … It is easier to laugh, mock, gossip, lie and hurt … bolster yourself on the corpses of others …
A life long truism … the popular people are fake; the popular people are bullies … always …
… and they are never, ever held to account.