by Kate ArdenContent warning: mentions of suicide Voicemails that have piled up over the past month Hey, it’s me again. you haven’t hit me back in a while. Look, i’m not trying to be rude, but will you be this sad tomorrow? Call me. It is mid afternoon. I watch two episodes of crazy ex girlfriend because usually it makes me feel less alone in my mania, but today I just envy the way her crazy still gets out of bed. If I invite you to brunch next weekend, will you be this sad? What about my bridal shower, will you make grey appear inside my other guests? Listen, I’m not asking just for me. There’s other people in the world, you know. There are more than 3 million cases of depression per year in the US. It requires a medical diagnosis, which of course requires going to the doctor, which requires getting out of bed, which requires… Can I take you out for a night, just to get away from the sadness? I hate it like you do. The sadness, I mean. But I know it’s important to you. You can’t leave the sadness alone too long, just like we can’t leave you alone too long. Is there someone I can call who isn’t tired of this? The sadness, I mean. Everybody’s always asking me how I am. Well, I’m here, so I didn’t off myself, you know? Nobody likes that joke. Nobody liked it when I wrote a song about PTSD to the tune of the YMCA song, either. I don’t know how to talk about this without entertaining. Hey, so I’ve been reading up on this, to see if it’s really as bad as you say it is. Does the sadness respond well to juice cleanses? Have you been to that sunrise pilates class I told you about? I’ll send you some articles I found. Be well, babe. Last year, the suicide rate in America was higher than it’s been in half a century. my doctor asks how often I think about killing myself and I struggle to land on a number that seems normal. Hey, it’s me. I was wondering… Were you this sad last week when we were talking and you were smiling so big it was like watching the moon rise? Are you more sad around me? Do I make it any better? I’m sorry I didn’t pick up. I would say it won’t happen again, but I know you don’t like my jokes. Every day, 2100 people pick up the phone for the last time. I wonder every time I hang up if today is the day I’ll be one of them. Listen, I had an idea. Do you tap your foot so the sadness knows you’re waiting? Do you jingle your keys at it, hover in the doorway? I know that doesn’t always work. Perhaps you could keep the sadness waiting just once. Tell it to stay in the car. Crack a window. Tell it you’ll be out soon. You know, that’s how people can kill their children without meaning to.
0 Comments
by Lydia WeinbergerContent warning: mentions of suicide I think being suicidal has made me more pro choice, In that I have actively chosen my own life everyday, Know that there is sweet relief out there but that that is not my choice So I treat myself with the tenderness of a mother to an unwanted fetus that persisted till personhood. I know now that there is no death, Just something, then nothing, Because a suicidal person can still fear death; We are seduced by the promise of a deep slumber, And what is an aborted fetus than nothing to nothing? Mass of cells at peace not because of death but because they were never more than mass of cells, Death is not an active phase to only be experienced by the living. And who are the living? Is it my beating heart that ties me to that group? My ability to sense pain? Is that my personhood keeping the blade from my wrist or Is it the sweet smell of spring flowers Clinging to my mucus membrane, The warm embrace of my boyfriend's shirt And the buzz of coffee too late at night, Or the image of my parents mourning me? Is that what keeps me here? Am I kept here just by passiveness? Is it still a passive choice to keep existing if I think about dying everyday? Is it still a passive choice to stay pregnant? To not get an abortion? Do we actively or passively ascribe emotions to stuffed animals? To things humans made and humans can destroy and their atoms would be none the wiser? by Janae GamaraContent warning: mentions of suicidal thoughts my last class of the day is on the fourth floor and the window is open and the window is never open and sometimes wasps keep flying in and honestly it gives me anxiety because i've never been stung before and what if i'm allergic and what if it hurts and what if it swells up and i die? and i haven’t been to this class in probably a month and i’m sure everyone is staring at me like that one kid who only shows up for the final and everyone is like “you’re in our class?” and my palms are sweaty and my leg is shaking and i’m sure i’ll be called on at any moment by the professor who probably hates me, or at the very least is tired of my bullshit. and honestly i haven't even done the readings for today but my last class is on the fourth floor and the windows are open and i think about jumping out of it ten times before class lets out, all within the space of an hour and fifteen minutes and i wonder what it would be like. my body hitting—whatever. the thud. the way it sounds when you accidentally drop your hardcover textbook. or maybe the quiet of a pencil slipping from your hand, almost an accident. and me. i think about throwing my pencil out the window and then following it out, a dive, but then what if i miss and accidentally hit some girl on the head and the pencil sort of rebounds back to me? and then i will be so full of shame that of course that door to the sky would beckon me into forever. and so what? what does infinity taste like? and what if this is a cry for help? and what if i refuse to admit it's a cry for help because my pain can't be valid if someone else has more pain, right? so i didn't jump out the window. i didn't jump out the window because i'm here, i exist, still, in spite of my brain's best efforts to convince me otherwise. i am still here because even though most days my anxiety and my depression make me never want to leave my bed, there are still those moments: my professor recites something in russian and i am reminded how beautiful other languages are, how we convey so much through sound. i watch my favorite play and remember how lovely life is. my sister’s laugh is often my favorite sound. a comfortable moment of silence with someone i’m close with is how i say, thank you. sometimes i pretend that string lights are my own personal stars. i tell my ex i love her, but i don't say it out loud. leaves still change color and i cannot stop them and do not want to. a warm shower is sometimes the kindest gift i give myself. i am around my friends and i am so glad to be alive. there is so much beauty in the world, and i am learning how to find it in everything. |
AuthorAll our submissions are by different authors. They chose to submit their artwork, but please do not re-post artwork without the permission of the creator. ArchivesCategories
All
|