Skittles Taste Like Suicide

“My death will be the result of suicide.” Neither the weather nor my emotional state were particularly gloomy when this thought calmly made itself known to me last summer. It should have shocked me to my core, and yet it felt more like acknowledging the unavoidable than encountering the absurd. I was not enduring a bout of depression and my life circumstances weren’t troublesome, so this thought should not have had any grounds… And yet it did, and it does.

It’s an odd feeling, knowing that you have an inconsistent and untrustworthy emotional state. During some stages you find yourself a blissful, euphoric individual that is grateful for every scent, every sight, every situation, and at others you’re nothing but an empty void of an entity, wondering how the changing of seasons can be so colourful yet you yourself are nothing more than ebony stains and inky errors?

To those who haven’t dealt with emotional dysregulation, the very idea of suicide is seen as a selfish act; as if thinking a person should exist simply so that you do not suffer their loss isn’t selfish in itself. They cannot comprehend the severity of sadness, and think that “time will heal” and “you will get over this” are adequate pieces of advice. And perhaps yes, time will heal that particular wound and yes, that obstacle will be overcome but in the case of truly emotional time bombs it runs deeper than a surface problem –it’s a lifelong affliction that comfortably settles in the recesses of your mind with one definite promise: I WILL EMERGE AGAIN!

A scenario may be surmounted, but as life advances so too do emotions. At what point does a person ailed by recurring bouts of depression decide that the happiness they will acquaint themselves with once more is no longer sufficient to excuse the misery they are stifled by periodically? If you absolutely know that, even with medication to attempt adjusting your dysfunctional chemical imbalance, there will be another time when melancholy is the attire that you are donned in then how can you be blamed for deciding you no longer wish for the burden of providing the mannequin for the garb?

And so the thought of my demise did not frighten me that day, but rather felt like a truth I calmly accepted. Although I am certain at this very moment that I am enjoying the roller coaster of a life that I lead and have absolutely no intention of surrendering my existence at my own hands, I cannot guarantee the self that will succumb to a chemical decline will see fit to continue this charade in the future. If you do not experience the extremities of the highs and the lows of life, the inability to truly empathise will cause this concept to be viewed as an inexcusable act to you –and yet those who know, who truly KNOW, that sometimes time and tide are not enough to compensate for the ever-swinging emotional pendulum will not be plagued by the misguided fantasy of “if only”, for they will know that even if only the deceased had persisted, so too would the depression. Eventually, and inevitably, it always comes back.

May your atoms disperse and vibrate on a more positive frequency, my darling Skittles.

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7 thoughts on “Skittles Taste Like Suicide”

  1. This piece really touched my soul. It was almost as if I was the one writing? Or as if, it was something I had said in the past and someone had put it into better set of words and made it something beautiful. I almost thought I was crazy, and the fact that there are others who feel what I go through on a regular basis gives me a calm reassurance.

    Thank You Xxx

    Like

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