Category Archives: Suicide

Dear Kat: What Life Is Like Now That You Are Gone

Dear Kat: What Life Is Like Now That You Are Gone

It’s absurd how often I think about you now that you are gone; every casual conversation we ever had an exchange of words I did not realise would cement themselves in the place you no longer are.

Your passing apprised me with the fragility of human existence, and the profound impact interactions could have well after their moment had ceased to be anything more than recollections.

A million words are incoherently strewn in my brain, wishing to string themselves together and sound out like notes to your ears, to fill you with the Love that is owed to all who live -not only to those who have left us behind. I view the warmth of affection as a blanket of selfishness I swaddled myself in, and feel myself imploding with the knowledge that I can no longer infuse you with emotions.

If our true human connections were to be viewed as a single piece of jewelry, then your place around my wrist would have been a sparkling gem I did not pay attention to until your casing was without stone. Now all I see is the empty space in which nothing will ever fit as appropriately, a vacant gap as dull as the darkness that blinded you and a thousand words remain unspoken…
-except the air hears them all: the unoccupied car seat as I barrel along the highway with a melody that chokes of your memory, the way I envision you in my room when all I can think about is how there is no elegant way to describe death, nor the loss of the companions you learn to love along the way and my God I hope you know I loved you

And thank you. The little pieces of yourself that you have left behind are enough to help feel closer to you whenever there is a lacking; the way you laid yourself out was a patchwork manner in which we could piece you together when we no longer knew where to look for you. With the haze of hurt slowly subsiding, and the reality of a life without you settling in your words become clearer, your truth becomes louder…

Yet still it is as if every memory I access ties itself to you, and of a multitude of neural fragments yours stab the sharpest until you are a migraine I do not want to be rid of. It would be me who fell to my knees now, if only I could see you! Neither of us recognised the importance of your existence when your lungs still took air, in death you embody all that it means to have taken things for granted. You were an inspiration in the most subtle way, that our very conversations encouraged entire poetic pieces without me ever attributing the significance to who you were to me. In hindsight, my writings have rarely ever taken shape without tragedy. How ironic then, that we find ourselves here. Do I find you here?

Too many of the things I love have chords of you hidden in the tune, speaking through the lyrics and so I no longer know how to listen without hearing you. Yet lately Kat, it seems evermore to me that this life is beautiful: it feels as though I have gone through chrysalis to emerge with wings that you will never see in flight, and I only wonder how bright your wings would have been had you envisioned the darkness as encasing a beginning rather than the cocoon of a curse. Oh, my Skittles! Sometimes I taste the rainbow, and only hope that you have found the pot of gold at The End… ♥

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Guilt: How Your Noose Strangled My Neck

It is not my fault that you are gone. It IS my fault for not realising that you were not going to stay.

It Is My Fault for overlooking your emotional decline, as if my helplessness regarding your hopelessness was a validation for the way in which I handled your statement of depression. I, always so abundant in advice for those I care about, found when your tongue stalled mine stilled. In your silence there was a hunger for the words that I did not have.

It Is My Fault for the immoralities in which I have excessively indulged, for the vices that we would unite over and the manner in which they obliterated the memories of your every profession. In your absence my thoughts have sobered, and I have been left to reflect upon what I have now come to know was truly your confession.

It Is My Fault for allowing the anxiety that ticks in my head like the hands of a clock to convince me there was no time for a farewell, because there would always be time for another hello. The uncharacteristic keenness you displayed should have served as an alarm, yet my apprehension was the only thing I allowed myself to pay heed to… The loss of you has detonated with more force than any fear ever could have.

It Is My Fault for blithely accepting your response to my query; you were a puzzle I was too ashamed to admit I could not solve. What you presented was a perfectly coloured side of a Rubik’s Cube, and although I could sense the angles you did not display were a mangled mess aching to be resolved I did not know how to align the rest of you without disrupting the best of you.

It Is Not My Fault that you are gone, but It Is My Fault for not recognising that you weren’t going to stay. As you journeyed to your final destination, you left a trail of breadcrumbs in your wake –and now, I’m choking on them.

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.