I stand in a world of pain and while I shout to those around me of this condition, I watch the thought bubbles above their heads that read, “It’s not my problem,” or “I hope someone else is taking care of it so my life isn’t upset,” or “Let’s count the number of reasons your not worth the time.”
A weighty issue sits on me, regularly; and this issue is, when can I be relieved of this burden called life? I can’ do it myself because I still have a shread of care for those around me, and I’ll not leave them with that legacy. So, at 46, I’m done; convinced life isn’t worth living anymore.
How does one beat loneliness when extending trust feels like the greatest of all efforts? Spending a life being shown all too frequently that people can’t be trusted to be anything other than untrustworthy is truly a heavy weight to bear. I walk down a street and see hundreds of souls but each look away with an expression that says, you’re not worth paying attention to. I hear people say all the time that every life matters but you can see an unspoken qualifier in their eyes that they mean, every life matters to someone but not to me. People like what they read but inside they still find themselves saying, I feel bad for that person but I can’t help because it would interfere with my life. They run from the prospect that maybe the person they help could be the best possible thing to happen to them.
Everyone wants friends but no one wants to be a friend because it’s more effort than they want to give.
Self destruction is made easier when those around the self-destructor attempt to stop the descent by putting feathers underneath and bricks of pressure on top. Many who say that a person must pull themselves up for their own sake are usually not people who suffer from the isolation of free fall and can point to at least one person providing solid footing in life. It’s hard to reverse direction and stop self destruction when hope that something good is waiting for the effort is made of the thinnest ice and threatens to break on a word.
I stand before the crowd screaming as loud as I can. My voice reverberates off their indifference like the greatest of all shields. Their backs turn, their phones are all they hear. I do not have a phone so I may not communicate as they wish me to. In all the great glory of technological marvel, the greatest disaster is silence to the love they swear they feel but do not wish to speak openly, only to the dead receiver that can’t truly transmit the feeling. We seek yet the means to say I love you from a distance and hope it is trusted, even as we lay beneath the sheets of another.
I see a hand raised in violence and shout that this should not be but silence is all that’s heard as she takes the blow without hope. She wishes for the one who can make it stop but closes her ears to the sound of real salvation. She yearns to leave the hurt but not the man. He may yet be saved from his eternal torture which he inflicts on others. Even unto her own damnation and destruction will she ever curse the hurt but never to one who inflicts it.
Silence is all that awaits me in the halls of care as I cannot find the means to unlock their indifference and make them hear. If even one voice shall respond then I shall not be alone. Can I find that one voice or due to the unfortunate face I bear, will I be forced to confront the hell of silence?
Pain is such a constant friend numbness sets in; apathy. Reaching out, the hand comes back fast for the slap of indifference. Even those of close association turn their eyes away for the inability to see the pain that inspires the song. It requires the effort, the caring, to look for it. The one in pain is bound by the tightest need to remain silent and simply hope, the one needed will see them someday.
The pain is a weight that makes caring if life continues a thin string to dangle from. The one in pain holds onto that string but can’t bring the enthusiasm to care if the string breaks. The heart is broken to the empty eyes that ignore how fragile that hold is. There are reasons the pained one continues to dangle from that string and not let go; though the string cuts into the flesh to provide fresh pain, as the minutes turn to hours, the hours into days and the days into numbing years.
This titanic struggle continues to elude the understanding and hope slowly fades as a new cry goes unheard though others sit but a few feet away.
Apathy; it is a word seriously misunderstood. Even those who suffer from it don’t fully understand it. Where does the lack of caring come from? Is it born and bred in us or is it environmental? When a person pulls back from the world at large and just exists out of a desire to simply wait for the end; is it right that others allow it? These are the thoughts that run through my head as I lay here in my bed.
I look in a mirror and see myself and can’t be bothered to do anything for the unwashed brown hair and dead blue eyes. I see myself in the mirror within my imagination and see someone of grandness but disappointment enters my head upon looking in reality.
My mom comes into my room and yells at me to find something to care about but she approaches wrong. She looks into my dead blue eyes and still thinks it is within me to care. In what world does it make sense to yell at the apathetic and expect results?
Where is that person who can show me how to fight for my life? Where is the person who thinks it is worth taking time out of their life to fight for me? Where is the person to get in my face and stand beside me as they force me to get off my bed and into the shower? Where is the person who will drag me out of the house and declare they would do anything rather than let me spend one more day letting myself die?
If I tell people that I want that; will I be able to trust that they really care or are they just humoring me? I stand on a bridge to nowhere crying out in my head for help but can’t be bothered to put it out there for others. I stand invisible though a crowd of people stands with me. What is the use in caring about a life where you can’t be seen to matter? The slow road to suicide begins to move faster as I sit in my room smoking cigarettes that my mom pays for though she yells at me to care about my health.
If I make my thoughts known; will others look to pass the buck or could the one who truly finds me important enough to fight for read these words and act instead? I do not know the answer. All I know is that the long sleep seems good to me now though I lack the ability to care enough to go into myself. I will continue to smoke my cigarettes, live in my head and hope the long sleep finds me before I suffer any longer.