This Post Is Not Going To Have A Title

I always thought that I could put anything into words. Whatever feeling, whatever situation, whatever image, I could put it into words. I can give words to silent conversations. I have described, at length, my depressions and my heartbreaks and my small joys. I have put everything into words, even when I couldn’t speak aloud, I would write. Daddy always says, “Write it out, girl.” And that’s what I did, and that’s what I do.

But this. This exquisite torture that I am suffering, that I have suffered for so long, this torture has no words. There are no words to describe it. No word, in any language that I’ve found, can do justice to this exquisite anguish that I endure.

This is not depression.
This is not bipolar.
This is not mania.
This is not borderline personality disorder.
This is not anxiety, or psychosis, or paranoia, or indeed alcohol or substance abuse.
This is not post-traumatic stress disorder, or prescription drug abuse, or pseudodementia.
This is not exhaustion, or sleep deprivation, or an eating disorder, or dehydration.
This is not something which can be put into words.

I am terrified of being alive.
I did not ask to be born.
I never signed up to Life.
I am terrified of death.
I am not asking to be dead.
I never signed up to Die,
because I never asked to be born in the first place.

I don’t want to live, and I don’t want to die. I want nothing. I want non-existence. I don’t want to cease to exist, I just want to have never existed in the first place.

There are no words for this. They haven’t been invented yet. And they probably never will. Because people like me will either die before writing them (because they’ve chosen not to live anymore) or they will die before writing them (because death is inevitable).

Petrified of living. Petrified of dying. There are no words. “Petrified” is not enough. Too much is never enough.

Don’t tell me to stop being afraid. I have been brave for too long. I am scared. I think, considering what I’m going through, considering how much pain I am in whilst I am alive, and how much it would pain me to die, how I want neither of these things, how I wish for unattainable non-existence, I think I’m allowed to be scared.

Don’t tell me that everyone’s scared of life and everyone’s scared of dying; I have serious, debilitating, crippling phobias of life and death which have a significantly impact on my day-to-day “functioning.” I am barely functioning. I didn’t want any of this. I didn’t want anything.

And don’t fucking say, “But you have put it in words! You’ve just done 400 words!” These are not words. These are not words. Nothing is real, but so is everything. There are no words for this. None. There is nothing.

1 Comment

  1. I hear the gap between your words. The indescribable emptiness, nothingness and everythingness. Your words around it suggest a shape and colour. That is enough, but that will never be enough. You feel this space. You fill this space. You are this space, for now. And like everything that you’ve been, that you still are, it is only part of the story. Feel this, for now, no matter how terrifying. And grab my hand, hold on tight, as you float through this space. Hold on tight to a friend’s connection and reassurance, though you may be numb to it. Hold on tight as I do to you. That may be all there is, there may be so much more, but right now it will be – enough.

Tell me what you think!

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s