Do n’t Be Afraid to Die

If I left a grand for each time I heard the term “someone has it worse than you,” I probably would not be composing. I would be on an island somewhere with no net and no arseholes and living like a king dressed like Robinson fucking Crusoe!

Yes there are individuals who have it worse than I do, however, there is agatha lira [learn this here now] nothing I could do to them when the damaging wave of my mental illness sweeps me up and awakens my helpless head against the eroding stones of my life. Think about that for a moment. As analogies go, that’s almost like beating a homeless person to death with a suitcase full of money. That is not far in the current tone by which society sets its own standards.

Nevertheless, it’s not the the world depresses me. It will, but it is not the main reason for my ailment. Some individuals are just constructed wrong. Their biological contraptions aren’t made to last or they endure faulty wiring. I guess the latter is me and because of this I probably care more than I need to when I have it in me to take care. But melancholy for one isn’t just about feeling awful. Most often I believe nothing at all other than a continuous feeling like I am being crushed slowly to death by gravity.

And the amusing thing about living with anxiety and depression is that everything rests at once, both your brain and the body endure the same aching sense of hopelessness and the longer you live with it, the tougher it is for messages to get back and forth between both. I’m a zombie.

I’m barely more than thirty and I’ve lived with it because my final years in high school. Until recently there was not much that didn’t function. The majority of the time that I felt like a warm corpse, wearing down the frightening novelty of taking up a lot of my mum’s money, patience, time and space. And then on the better times I felt as though I was twenty to thirty years older before my time.

Just to give you an idea of what I’ve lived with since my mid-teens, I have been suicidal off and on; mercifully largely off, in terms of urges. Some days your brain has a voice of its own and also your emotions seem utterly alien. If you do not do what that person says, it will look for a way to Agatha Lira act without your cooperation and that is a scary thing – particularly when it shows you exactly how helpless you can be against it.

Then you will find the passively suicidal days in which it is not an urge or a voice but more or less a sense of exhaustion so great you don’t even possess the will to rationalise against the absurd. You only sort of shuffle about, accepting that it is not going to end well, and you let it eat you as you have not even the capacity to make choices. You could die rather than give a damn and which will be no significant loss.

Hearing about individuals who have it worse does not make me want to fucking grin. If you feel differently, then obviously the wrong guy got ill!

If this account of current events seems disjointed or dispassionate, please allow me to assure you that this is not my purpose and it certainly is not laziness.

Admittedly it’s a bit of a bizarre one, but hey, that is Eve; my beautiful human being with a sister!

I could tell you about exactly what made me this way. That might take a whole university study in itself in medicine and psychology, but because my immune system became perilously close to non human as of late and hospital evaluations resulted in the discovery that the same goes for the majority of my other hormones.

I could hardly get it up for most of my thirties. Each one the antidepressants made my behavior pretty unpredictable and sometimes dangerous, so we needed to try to find another route. Testosterone treatment left me barbarous also, so slowly I simply slunk back into exactly the identical pattern of living in a darkened corner not to drain anymore of mum’s savings, whatever was abandoned.

Eve did not just hate to see me enjoy this. She was terrified. Five years ago one of the closest friends, from the blue, hauled herself into oncoming traffic. That put Eve to a melancholy but the tablets worked for her. I was not bitter in any respect. I was thankful that with all the mourning process leading up to and coming away from the funeral, she managed to recuperate over a matter of weeks. However, in all honesty knowing that she needed me close and really having the ability to help her made me feel somewhere closer to normal for a while.

All my life I’ve only ever cared for Eve so far I could tell her I love her and feel that it signifies something. I tell mum the exact same however – and this may seem strange considering – she’s just mum. We have developed a regular of times and places when it was polite to say “love you, mom…”

With Eve, I tell her if I feel it and she does exactly the exact same. We’ve always been very close. Some think we’ve always been closer than most sisters, in spite of the fact that we rarely hang out socially (I am the only person as you can probably imagine).

So I could not bear to see her so angry, realizing that there was nothing else she could do. However, being that I fought urges I didn’t need and refused to take, I had to be brutally honest with her at some stage or another. Her friend might have been helpless against her own struggle, but for whatever the reason, she dropped the ball. Not that I called her greedy for it. However, it wouldn’t have been selfish to ask for support either. Eve owed nothing.

What mattered to me then was that I be there for her where most other family would keep their space and also to await communication to happen instead of to direct her throughout her mourning. As a part of me wondered, if a friend might have such impact, then what would I have done for her had I took my life?

We spent some three months leaning on one another, phasing in and out of consciousness through the dark times and poor weather. I let her cry on my shoulder until I had been moist with saltwater, until the mourning itself became a lot. Soon it was the perfect time to go and to proceed for her sake.

But she was not pleased about leaving me behind, as she placed it. I agreed that it was not fair that she would recover so easily and I could not, but what would we do? We might have been peas in a pod however she was the most perfect one. She said she’d do anything for me personally.

I requested her to rob a bank. Putin let’s down on these army distribution drops we inquired for. So I was not likely to be a millionaire anytime soon. I requested her to stop being so smart and go get a job in KFC therefore that she could bring me chicken every evening. To be honest, she would not have satisfied the top and cover anyhow, not after I’ve seen her in a teddy bear onesie.

Eve is five years younger than me and takes a couple of added pounds, but in all of the appropriate ways. She’s the very best for cuddles, which I never got enough of, until I get to where that story’s led. She’s well endowed (F cups I believe) and maintained her coating of puppy fat and left it work to her benefit.

She’s a hot brunette, likes to put her hair up and keeps a pale tan during the year and she’s got the sexiest grin and pretty brown eyes that have never been off limits to me personally. I love her dearly and it’s always hurt me more to understand they’re wasted on this stupid illness.

I often feel like she has to do it for me personally, and worry that she’s left believing she neglects me when out her and proud love for me simply doesn’t do the trick. I am a bad brother!


4 August 2018

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