there will be no compensation
Dec. 30th, 2019 09:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
virgovenusyou have been suicidal for a very long time. not in a way where you have to worry (waking up in the hospital when you were 14 was the worst day of your life, knowing that not only had you given up on yourself, and everyone knew, but that you couldn't even do it right, hadn't realized that handful after handful wouldn't be enough, a child's attempt too immature to be endearing or sympathetic, it is so much harder to kill yourself than you realized, the disappointment and humiliation your steadfast companions except this time everyone else will be able to make out their forms too) but in a way where you start to compensate for it; a shortened stride to accommodate the burden of it.
you will stay in more than is good for you-- or maybe you always did that. you will one day be startled by the fact that it isn't normal to spend every day you are allowed prone in bed (but doesn't everyone? but surely-- you're not the only-- everyone has their days, you just have more than most-- better not tell, better keep your door firmly shut, better shut them out, better keep them out).
you will make excuses where you don't need to, and you will never once allow yourself to take refuge in the kindness of others. you haven't earned it, it doesn't matter if it's freely given if you haven't earned it, that's just cheating, just taking, and you are bad at so many things you have to try and be good at this.
you will plan your life to the minute detail until something doesn't go according to plan and then you will ignore ignore ignore ignore ignore
and then you will hold your breath.
you will hold your breath.
you will forget that you need oxygen or maybe you will not forget but lean into deprivation. this is punishment; this is discipline. you have earned this, and it feels good, the taking away. the justice of it all.
you will hang onto the idea of justice, even when it no longer keeps your head above the water, even when it is too big to hold. in many ways, you are still that child, that desperate, guilty child that took those pills and thought maybe that could be a way of giving.
you will not forgive without hearing an apology first. have the dignity, the pride, the spine for that. you will not know how to apologize to yourself and mean it.
you will be happy sometimes. really, truly, happy. the good things are small enough to hold and plentiful and forthcoming and honest and it will not be enough. do you understand? you haven't earned it. and it is undeserved and it is not enough anyways no matter how you ration and stretch and your lungs have stopped burning and the brain starved of oxygen is happy to be that way.
you will learn that trust is a two way street with eight lanes, a freeway, the 407 late at night in january, chlorine still stinging your pores because you were too busy laughing after practice to hop in the shower before your mother comes into the change room and yells at you in front of everyone-- you see what happens when you take happiness you haven't earned?
you will find that pity isn't the worst part. pity is a modest living, nothing to be ashamed about but now you are a burden and everyone is carrying you and trying to make it easier for you while making it harder on themselves. you are not heavy and you are not light but you are a task now and you know it would be ungrateful to beg to be put down.
you will learn that trust goes both ways and it is your fault no matter which direction you come at it from. you will learn that this is called responsibility, and you will not feel more adult for the way it ages you.
you will never be alone. this is the worst part. you will hurt people over and over again. you will make eye contact with no one but your reflection and you will wish that you didn't recognize this face, and you will not be mad at your body because it was just something else carrying you and you know better than to be ungrateful.
you will make your own bed and lie in it. lie about it. you will get your coffin custom made in meticulous detail and you will dig your hole deeper and you will put a rug out on rock bottom and you will live there. you will feel safe there. stay there.
do you understand?
you will stay in more than is good for you-- or maybe you always did that. you will one day be startled by the fact that it isn't normal to spend every day you are allowed prone in bed (but doesn't everyone? but surely-- you're not the only-- everyone has their days, you just have more than most-- better not tell, better keep your door firmly shut, better shut them out, better keep them out).
you will make excuses where you don't need to, and you will never once allow yourself to take refuge in the kindness of others. you haven't earned it, it doesn't matter if it's freely given if you haven't earned it, that's just cheating, just taking, and you are bad at so many things you have to try and be good at this.
you will plan your life to the minute detail until something doesn't go according to plan and then you will ignore ignore ignore ignore ignore
and then you will hold your breath.
you will hold your breath.
you will forget that you need oxygen or maybe you will not forget but lean into deprivation. this is punishment; this is discipline. you have earned this, and it feels good, the taking away. the justice of it all.
you will hang onto the idea of justice, even when it no longer keeps your head above the water, even when it is too big to hold. in many ways, you are still that child, that desperate, guilty child that took those pills and thought maybe that could be a way of giving.
you will not forgive without hearing an apology first. have the dignity, the pride, the spine for that. you will not know how to apologize to yourself and mean it.
you will be happy sometimes. really, truly, happy. the good things are small enough to hold and plentiful and forthcoming and honest and it will not be enough. do you understand? you haven't earned it. and it is undeserved and it is not enough anyways no matter how you ration and stretch and your lungs have stopped burning and the brain starved of oxygen is happy to be that way.
you will learn that trust is a two way street with eight lanes, a freeway, the 407 late at night in january, chlorine still stinging your pores because you were too busy laughing after practice to hop in the shower before your mother comes into the change room and yells at you in front of everyone-- you see what happens when you take happiness you haven't earned?
you will find that pity isn't the worst part. pity is a modest living, nothing to be ashamed about but now you are a burden and everyone is carrying you and trying to make it easier for you while making it harder on themselves. you are not heavy and you are not light but you are a task now and you know it would be ungrateful to beg to be put down.
you will learn that trust goes both ways and it is your fault no matter which direction you come at it from. you will learn that this is called responsibility, and you will not feel more adult for the way it ages you.
you will never be alone. this is the worst part. you will hurt people over and over again. you will make eye contact with no one but your reflection and you will wish that you didn't recognize this face, and you will not be mad at your body because it was just something else carrying you and you know better than to be ungrateful.
you will make your own bed and lie in it. lie about it. you will get your coffin custom made in meticulous detail and you will dig your hole deeper and you will put a rug out on rock bottom and you will live there. you will feel safe there. stay there.
do you understand?