The youngest I remember actively considering suicide, I was thirteen. It’s been an ever present thought since then. Hovering, at all times, just off to the side of my peripheral vision. Even at happy times, I am constantly struck by the notion that maybe I should just die then and there as it seems like a good idea to go out on a high. Other times, when I’m on a low, it just seems like a pretty easy time to slip out. Regardless, it’s always there. Sometimes front and center, but always, ALWAYS, faintly visible.
I don’t know that I can explain to someone what it’s like to have been exhausted for seventeen years. I don’t think that I can explain to anyone my age what it’s like as an aging body isn’t able to compensate for its own limitations any longer. I really do truly feel as though I am dying. Every day. And it’s getting harder and harder to keep up the effort to keep myself from giving in to a desire which, every day, seems to be more and more appealing and more and more justified.
I used to have pride. I knew that suicide was cowardly and defeatist. Well, I’m cowardly and defeated. It just about seems to be appropriate. There doesn’t seem to be much in me at the moment to inspire a great deal of hope that anything is going to get better. And I really doubt that, if it did, it’d make any difference. At least, not for any great period of time.
When I was a child, I hated losing teeth. I would wiggle the teeth gently, and I can remember feeling the individual “threads” break that held my teeth in. I feel like one by one, all of those threads are breaking, and my resistance is hanging on for, of all things, dear life.
Each day brings increasing exhaustion. It’s harder and harder to find the strength to do anything beyond survive the day. Hence an utter lack of entries. I’m trying to keep myself distracted, and/or don’t have the strength to bring myself to think. At least, not in any kind of meaningful way. I don’t have the strength. And as this weakness leads to a cascading series of failures, I find myself less able to pick myself up and to overcome any of them. And this results in more of a desire to break the cycle, but, lacking the strength to overcome it, one option repeatedly presents itself.
So, I hinted to my doctor today that maybe, just maybe I’ve been contemplating my future and not finding it to be acceptable. Namely that I’m losing hope that anything is ever going to get better, and that that isn’t a future that I will tolerate. I don’t want to endure another fifty years of exhaustion, stomach pain, and rapidly deteriorating joints. I don’t want to deal with fifty years of eyes that hurt all the time from lack of sleep, which half the time can’t focus on a page without effort, and that burn and sting more often than not, but which show up as normal in all eye tests. I don’t want to deal with fifty years of joints sounding like splintering graphite whenever I move them. I don’t want to deal with an inability to focus, a growing sense of face blindness, and a daily slowing reaction time. I don’t want to deal with so much of what appears to be a certainty to me. To say nothing of my psychological state which is also, frankly, a mess.
Well, she says she’s going to look into getting me into a sleep clinic in Kagoshima. We’ll see what happens. I am not terribly hopeful, but, as I don’t yet have it within me to bring about a more permanent solution, I’ll see if anything comes of this.