The Trigger

I still don't know what's wrong with me(I mean other than the totally unhelpful MDD diagnosis). What is the issue therapists have with letting patients see their own files, anyway? Naturally, I've been thinking of all the illnesses I might have and I'm terrified that it's going to be one of those ones that can only be helped by forming close meaningful relationship because that simply isn't going to happen.

"I dreamed you bewitched me into bed

And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane"

The worst part of being completely worn down and alone(and believe me, it's hard to choose) is constantly being aware that the slightest provocation can throw you back into suicidality. When you're living everyday with no hope, or worse, a tiny shred of unsubstantiated hope that is only there because it hasn't been crushed out of you yet(but you know that it's only an issue of time). It took so little to shake me. It always does. One picture and I was knocked out of my body. My arms don't feel like my arms, my legs don't feel like my legs and my brain can't even get my body to stop shaking. I no longer have the energy to try to fight it or pretend I can think about anything other than this right now. The pain has made me so self-centered. And I am not as coordinated as I was yesterday. I vaguely remember the days when I used to go looking for this sort of torture, convincing myself that I needed to know (about him, about them, about it). Being alone all my life, feeling connected to another person and then being alone again was the worst pain I've ever known. Maybe I thought the equilibrium of abandoned hope could be an acceptable substitute for stability. It seems like the sort of mad logic I would employ.

 I am in pain. It is unpleasant. Talking to my friends about inane everyday things is taking so much out of me, I can barely lift my arms to reach for my phone to type something about sexy Catholic priests or pop stars. It's easier, though. Obviously. Otherwise I wouldn't do it. I don't want to talk about him. I don't want to talk about them. I don't want to talk about it. I just want a break, but I know better than to think I'm ever going to get one. As long as I choose to live, I will deserve every bit of suffering that will come my way.

"The New Silence

    There is no preparation for it.  Even in the absence of the expected, a painfully desired, sound is an absence of infinitely grosser dimensions.  The telephone-keeping stern vows, its coiled throat in knots-this supremely indifferent device and the sound it doesn’t make can merely hint at that higher absence.  Of course such hints are restricted to certain peak phases of desolation suffered by certain imaginations, ones without prayer of defense.  Remember those rooms so stale, so dim that the dust seems to glitter with a final cracking luminescence precedent to ultimate gloom.  Why doesn’t that filthy thing ring!  What lunatics people sometimes choose for their first serious fall into human affection.  Ring, you infernal machine, unspeaking heart of hell!

    Then it does.  Remember its message: tonight in the park, by the far wall (the one with the stone heads on it that look like dragons), and make it late.  So the tones of the tormentor finally get through, with only minor interference from a temperamental receiver.  But tonight no spooks within the wires would interfere with their messages.  However, the meeting begins strangely.  Having apparently arrived first, he huddles in the ample shadows of the wall with the heads of stone. Only his voice seems to have kept the appointment, saying: closer, come closer.  He will not comply with even the politest request to move out into the moonlight, no matter how much someone needs to be reassured that it’s really him crouching there. For by now anyone could tell that the voice is a fantastic imitation, and when the imposter does finally shake off the shadows and steps forth, someone is sorry for ever wanting her poorest wish granted.  And now every sound seems the maddening drip of oceans of evil, blasphemy cooed near the ear of a blood sacrifice, a roaring sweat that ultimately evaporates into the sweet nothing of the new silence.

    For in the new silence no voice deceives you, and in the new silence you cannot hear yourself weep.  All voices are one in the new silence.  You must know now what it was he did to you and later to himself.  You must now speak to each other in the language of the new silence.

    So who was he?  And who now are you?

    I am glad I cannot hear you answer."

-- Ghost stories for the Dead (I love this story)