Saturday, January 03, 2015

Is it really that wrong?

As I stood on the bridge looking down towards the water far below me, I couldn't help but think the crystal blue green water somehow looked more like air. Maybe it was the reflection of the puffy white clouds that made it look so inviting. It even looked warm enough that I thought when I leaped off the bridge, I would just begin swimming effortlessly. The softness would then surround my body and comfort me in ways that no human could ever comfort me.

In reality it was mid January, with temperatures the day before in the low 30s. But today was nice.  A warm front was pushing through ahead of another cold spell, sending the temperatures up into the 70s. It was just warm enough to give me the energy that I needed to put me where I was standing.

People jump off bridges for various reasons, but maybe it's because it's convenient. Death is right there, and will be over within seconds. But maybe it's the thought that if you do jump, you might live, so instead of you making the decision to whether you will live or die, fate will decide.  Even if I am trying to kill myself, if I jump at the right angle and velocity, I won't explode on impact, instead the cold January water will embrace me.

If I were 100% sure I wanted to die, I'm sure there are better ways to die. Such as a bullet to the head, pills, cutting deeply into my flesh, or even forcing someone else to do what I feel I'm too chicken to do. Even with all the possible methods of taking ones life, there still stands a chance that you survive. There's that tiny chance for a different kind of escape.

So as I stand there holding myself tightly against the railing, and trying not to cry. I stare down at the water, searching for an answer to why I felt like I was given such a raw deal in life, while others were blessed with things I could only dream about. It wasn't fair. Life wasn't fair.

Whenever I feel the blackness take hold, I often don't feel a thing. That is why I often cut myself; so I can feel again. During this time, I also tend to let my obsessions rule my life. I let my impulses take control, and whatever happens, happens. I don't try to stop it any more.

Anxious and angry is a bad combination. For whatever biological, or chemical reason, my brain had been stripped of all its usual defenses against life. I had some bad stuff going on, but none of it was bad enough to tip me over the way it did. Everything was suddenly more extreme than it had ever been—both my perception of the world and my reaction to it. Little things seemed big; big things seemed insurmountable. In my messed-up head, I felt I had been backed into a corner, surrounded by giants monsters that were attacking me from all angles.

To be continued... 

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