The Moment I Started Living, was the Moment I Let Myself Die
The moment I started living, was the moment I let myself die.
It wasn’t being raped that broke me. It was the betrayal after. I would have taken the blame. I would have accepted and understood to save that friendship. Instead, I was more than abandoned.
I was pushed off the cliff.
It wasn’t my insanity that made me fall faster. It was the lack of support. The lack of time people were able-were willing to spend to catch me.
It wasn’t because I was raped that I flushed all of the pills I could find in the house. It was because I knew I was plummeting, but everyone else was turning their heads... I looked for any pills I'd missed only a few weeks after.
I didn’t ask for help to get attention or to complain. I begged for help because I was scared of myself. Because I’d tried to fight alone, and was losing. I asked for help when I was too tired to battle the demons, when I wanted to end the pain. When my tank was empty, and I didn't have enough fumes to keep me moving forward.
It isn’t for lack of trying or planning that my funeral was never held. It’s because whenever I tried, I blacked out and was suddenly living a new day. In a different place, a different time. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to drive off the cliff. It was because the time-laps stopped me when my family wouldn’t. Or when I came to, I was too exhausted to get off the floor I found myself laying on.
It wasn’t the one who hurt me that fed my firey rage. It was the people I went to for help that didn’t listen or were too scared to try because I was scaring them - all the while I was scaring me too. It was how they’d tell each other how much I was overreacting or using my situation as an excuse.
It wasn’t my anger that dug deeper through the pits of hell, it was all of my “support” digging with earplugs and asking why I didn’t pick up a shovel to help.
It was the ones who promised to help telling me to suck it up. The ones who promised to be there when I was in desperate need telling me they were too busy to talk.
It was the hours alone in my room when I didn’t know if it was night or day, that I cried on my floor after begging my mom to stay.
It was my drives home when I called my sisters to keep me from driving myself off the road or into the wall just to be told I was stronger than that or I was being dramatic and to calm down.
It was when I was drained and in the kitchen staring at the knife I held, calling my sisters for help to be told they were busy. Or when I was laying on the train tracks calling person after person, and no one picked up. These were the nights and days I blacked out and found myself living the next day.
I was going to die. I was going to finally escape and kill myself the very day I went to my doctors for a leave of absence from work. I had enough energy the day the note was signed. I didn’t care what it took. A small part of me thought of everyone else, so I made sure the police would find my remains so my family didn't have to see the mess I would be.
I was done. I was empty. I was a hollow shell with a glimmer of myself that I wasn’t willing to share with the rest of the world because it didn’t deserve her!
It wasn’t texas that saved me. It wasn’t a doctor’s note or leave of absence from work. It wasn’t family or friends or animals. It wasn’t hate. It wasn’t love. It sure as hell wasn’t support.
It was the lack thereof that finally helped me make up my mind.
Texas was my resolve. Texas is where the little glimmer left of me was finally let go.
The day I died was the day I started to live.
The day I stopped caring about living for others.
The day I stopped caring about helping others.
The day I stopped caring about hurting others.
The day I stopped caring.
None of that glimmer survived. None of her made it through the climb or the flame. She didn't even try to stay. I once tried to bring her back, but there was nothing left to bring.
Somedays I miss her, but she did her time. This world didn’t deserve her purity.
She earned her freedom.
She left me in her place. She may have been sad, but mostly relieved. Because she was tired of giving everything and receiving so little.
I know those around me miss her.
Most everyone who knew her don’t like the me that clawed her way out.
It may hurt her, but it’s funny to me. How the very reason I exist, is because they let me die.
They may not have pushed me off the cliff, they may not have hurt me the way that one “friend” or man did. But they didn’t try to catch me. They didn’t try to help me up.
Instead, they grabbed a shovel and dug a grave deeper than the deepest pit of Hell. A grave deeper than demons dared to go venture.
An isolated place, with no one around. With no pain, no chaos, no light, and no sound. An oblivion to rest in peace, and that’s where I stayed, so I would never be found.
So no. I don’t care if I offend you. I don’t care about those relationships, I don’t care how mean or terrible I sound. I don’t care that my words hurt, or that I’m not trying hard enough. I don’t care that those bridges have been burned or I’m not willing to help like I did before. I don’t care that I talk too much or don’t give in like She did before.
I don’t care that I hurt your feelings because I guarantee you’ve hurt me So. Much. More.
Whether you meant to or not, that doesn’t matter. Because you all left me suffocating and scared. She wouldn’t come back with me through the fire and grime. She entrusted me to finish things here, and meet her back in the grave within at MOST 1 or 2 months.
I found I like me. I’m meeting her as you are, but she’s scary and fun. And has decided she’s worth fighting for.
The Me I left behind, is finally at peace. While the me that’s emerged has more power and strength than either of us can believe. Not nearly as much as the one in the grave, but a hell of a lot more than I’m able to explain.