The Speed of Pain

Last year was the best year of my life. I had never experienced true happiness before last year. Every day was more exciting than the day before. I laid around for hours basking in absolute happiness and eternal beauty. All of the optimistic shit that came out of my mouth, I actually felt and believed.

I've spent years being unhappy. ENTIRE years. I laid helpless in bed gazing out my window into a world I would never be a part of. I was debilitated. I had all of these brilliant thoughts trapped inside of a sick body.

So I was happy... and I enjoyed every moment of it because I was afraid it would go away. On the happiest of days I told myself, NO-- YOU WILL NOT BE SAD AGAIN. I REFUSE IT. I WILL FORCE MY WAY THROUGH ANY UNHAPPINESS I ENCOUNTER.

I was ridiculously in love with two men at once. I had a friend who's soul moved so closely with mine it was difficult to tell where he ended and where I began. And it ended. All of it.

Things started to fall apart and I tried desperately to gather the shards of glass on the floor to reassemble my life without cutting myself. But I didn't try hard enough.

I didn't want to go out that night. I had a bad feeling about the evening. I shook it away and I went out anyway. Going out is really hit or miss... some nights just aren't fun.

I can't even remember the first half of that night. I was dancing with these new friends I had, and I was trying to relate to them, but they mostly annoyed me. I hated them, actually. "Who the fuck are these people?" I thought.

I'm thinking about that night again tonight.

The summer was ending.

I was drunk and everything seemed to go on without me. I felt the bass beating deep within my chest and I felt nothing. I watched the lights flash needlessly. I watched my "friends" dance and know nothing about me. I was immobile. Pathetic. I felt that old familiar chill. It's always going to be like this, isn't it? I had a moment of happiness and it was gone... back to going out with strangers I hated. Back to strange relationships with strange men that didn't last. It was like waking up from a dream.

At that moment, I wanted to die. I wanted it more than anything. I wanted to lay down and die. I fantasized about slitting my wrists, ODing, hanging myself, shooting myself in the face... all snapshots.. over and over.. faster and faster.. swirling around in my head. My heart raced and a smile overcame me. I felt calm and certain. I wasn't afraid to die like I was the other times. I felt hopeless. I welcomed death with open arms. The only thing that frightened me was this determination to die. Maybe I should tell someone? Maybe I should think about it more? Because I actually wanted to do it. The only bit of energy I had left to try was to try to kill myself.

Reaching out for help is a new thing for me, and I don't enjoy doing it at all, but I did it anyway. I can't even recall what I said at this point.

Everyone was telling me to go home, but I couldn't move. I sat on a bar stool all done up with my head spinning and wondering what the fuck was happening to me.

Someone took me home. I don't remember who. I remember opening the car door and running to my house as I burst out into tears before I even reached my door.

I called a stranger. Some guy I had stopped talking to but started talking to again out of the sheer need to spill my problems onto someone who I didn't care about. I was gasping for air and crying very deeply into the phone.. into this strangers ear. He was trying to talk some sense into me. I think he was delighted to be with me during this desperate moment in my life. I think he thought it would bring us closer. He may have even found the experience to be beautiful. I needed to be comforted by someone who I was not invested in because the people I was invested in were gone, and I wouldn't dare put that kind of pressure on someone who I actually cared about.

I cried and cried and cried until I got it all out. I didn't even pay much attention to the things the stranger was telling me. I hated him. I hated everything about him and the stupid things he was saying. "Can I take some sleeping pills now?" I asked him. "No" he said, "please don't take any sleeping pills." "I need them" I told him. He said, "no.. no you don't Sonia (he liked using my name)" I hated when he said my name. "Ok.. I just took some sleeping pills... talk to me until I fall asleep," I demanded.

"I'm sleepy now... I feel so much better... mmm... I feel so good... good... good... goodnight"

I felt at peace and I believed the next day would be a new and better day...

That was the last time I was happy.

Life got worse. I fought hard. I didn't give up. I'm exhausted. I've spent the past 8 months fighting for my life... fighting for my job... my friendships... my romantic interests... I've tried everything. I've rearranged my furniture and my perspective a million times. I've spent a considerable amount of time crying in my bathtub. Ashamed. I was happy... I did it... and I couldn't get it back. I failed. I failed myself and I failed everyone who have ever had to see me sad and wished I wasn't.

This isn't the most miserable I've ever been, but it's close.

If I could just get some good sleep...

I miss being happy. I remember it less and less each day.