I Gave Myself September (1)

Content warning: recurrent theme of suicidal ideation

Days and weeks and months, indeed whole years, that I never wanted, expected or asked for keep on arriving at my door. They form quietly in the night then present themselves with the audacity of a cavalry, foisting the enormity of themselves upon me with such force that I have no option but to endure them (alone) in all of their miserable entirity: seemingly endless days of pain and sadness and grief and my brain trying to kill me, almost succeeding, then resuscitating me at the last second, only to go through the same charade again, bruises not even fully bloomed let alone fading.

For so long I did not want the gift of life, for life only felt, to me, like death dressed-up in a cheap wig. I did not welcome the days. I tried to prevent their (re)creation, more than once, and yet the days and weeks and months and years have kept on coming; so steadfast in their predictability, so reliable in their disappointment, like socks at Christmas from a well-meaning aunt or opening a book-shaped package to find it’s one you’ve already read, the You Have Been Denied Permission To Die is continually given to me. All of the wrapping is recycled from prior sad gifts but they are creative with how they address me on the name tags. FOR: WASTE OF SPACE, TO: USELESS OXYGEN THIEF, DEAR: SHIT HUMAN BEING, FOR YOU: STUPID BITCH, TO BE OPENED BY: UNGRATEFUL LITTLE GIRL.

In the mornings, or when I wake from an overdose, or when I haven’t slept and can hear the birds singing, I have to open my unwanted gift, accept its reality, and then muster a weak “thanks for this,” “you really shouldn’t have,” “thank you,” not because I am truly grateful, but simply because I am British and too polite (I may be mad but I have manners).

The gifts are never love or money or happiness or hope; they are always the same, always just another packaged opportunity to suffer, to ache, to fight, to lose, to fail, to exist. Sometimes, if it’s a special occasion, they also wrap up one of A Previously-Buried Trauma for me to open along with More Life. They spoil me. They exhaust me. And they tell me that I am so lucky.

14 thoughts on “I Gave Myself September (1)

  1. “In the mornings, or when I wake from an overdose, or when I haven’t slept and can hear the birds singing, I have to open my unwanted gift, accept its reality, and then muster a weak “thanks for this,” “you really shouldn’t have,” “thank you,” not because I am truly grateful, but simply because I am British and too polite (I may be mad but I have manners).
    I love when I see you’ve written, because your writing always touches me… pretty deeply, actually! I find myself relating to nearly everything you say. That’s a gift, in my eyes. X

    • Aaaaahhhhhh you saying that means so much to me, you have no idea how much! Hope you’re doing as well as you can be, lots of love to you and yours xxxxxx

    • Awww it’s been a while so I was a bit anxious to post but everyone’s been so kind! Hope you’re doing well, lovely xxxxxx

  2. One thing I can count on is the absolute stark beauty in your words. To be raw. To be real. To have a deep impact in my soul. Thank you for that. For the depth and the realness in a shallow, fake world.

  3. Very droll, but heart-wrenching. I wish life had a reset button. One you could press that gives you a fresh start full of opportunity, a strong will and a stronger mind. Maybe we need to develop that sort of fortitude but it’s so much easier said than done. This is so relatable X

    • Thank you for reading, and for your comment – we can only do our best, but what happens when our best is barely surviving? We just have to keep on keeping on. Hope you’re well x

      • I can understand our best being barely surviving. It’s extremely hard, isn’t it? I’ve looked for joy, solitude and love but I’ve never quite found it. Even when I have, it never lasts. It’s so difficult living with emptiness and wondering if one day I’ll actually live. You take care of yourself x

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