I was sitting on my front stoop this morning, pulling on a cigarette I shouldn't smoke. The clouds were a deeply bruised roil, and I could feel errant drops of rain splash against my skin. All the things I need to do, needed to attend to, pay for, fix, say, think, plan, were making me dizzy. I wanted to stop thinking, I wanted my body to stop and let me breathe. And in that moment, I finally understood how someone could end their life. I sat after I finished my smoke, contemplating that realization. The reason why people do it, why they take their own lives. To get it to stop, to finally find some peace.
I felt ashamed, after I briefly thought of the reasons why people jump, slice, shoot, hang. Of having the thought caress my mind. I felt my heart grow heavy with these faceless people and their unbearable pain. I grappled with the knowledge, like they were whispering their pain into my ear. Telling me the secrets they couldn't share with the world.
This is something I could never do. I would never willingly leave my children, my husband, my family, my friends. I know what grief feels like, I wear it like a fucking coat. My children will never have to ask why I would want to leave them behind. I won't lay my pain on their shoulders to carry through life. That isn't my road.
Living less than complete, with parts of you bent and broken, makes you desperate. I'm desperate for peace, for this overwhelming feeling of wrongness to stop. This is why I take all the pills, I go to counseling, I write. It's like trying to put a puzzle together, but you keep trying to shove pieces where they don't belong, try to force them to fit...then you realize you're missing pieces and the puzzle may never be whole.
Today, I am tired.