I don’t think a large population of people realize that waking up and living is one of the hardest things that has to be done. Some would say it is easy all you have to do is wake up and go. I on the other hand wake up and try to decide if today should be my last because every part of my being wants it to be. I want to die.
I didn’t always used to be this way, which is another frequent reminder that my life has changed. Living knowing that the people I love so much remember me as someone else, someone who was happy, who had motivation, who wasn’t angry, who would light up a room. I don’t see why I can’t be both people. A happy person stuck in a sad world or am I a sad person stuck in a happy world?
I waste so much energy blaming myself for the heart ache that I have caused my family by changing that I haven’t had a chance to understand the person that I have become. I waste energy trying to live as the person I was to try to not hurt the people I love. I waste energy waking up and forcing myself not to end my life today because I don’t want to hurt anyone else. I waste energy convincing myself that the knife in my hand isn’t the answer, when my body is telling me that it is.
I wake up everyday hoping it is my last because according to people I am broken, that the tram I went through broke my brain and taking these pills can easily fix. I have learned nothing can fix something that was torn into pieces. I have also learned that the way I feel is just a cry for “attention” and maybe there really is nothing wrong with me. I waste energy keeping my mouth shut because every time I express a feeling “it must just be another PTSD episode”. No, not every hurt feeling, angry thought, bad day is an episode. But holding in so much pain because the people around you can’t stand to hear you speak causes the emotions to transform, sadness becomes anger, anger becomes rage and eventually you have to let go. Your brain is telling you to let go of all of it and you are being told to hold it all in. I wish with all of my being I could be who I was.
I have been pretending for so long I just want the pain to stop. I don’t want to be sad anymore. I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore. I just want to die. Please Don’t Make Me Wake Up Tomorrow….
“Harlan Wolff sums it up beautifully “The media are pushing the Robin Williams suicide story with the subtlety and tact of a runaway train. The story being purveyed is that he was sad and it addled his mind. Ordinary people are sometimes sad, not geniuses, geniuses are depressed; which is a different thing entirely. You see, a genius is born into a world that resembles a room full of television sets with all the different channels simultaneously pummeling them with information that they must then try to assimilate into an explainable philosophy. Comedic genius is possibly the worst affliction of the lot, and that’s why much of the work of the best comedians is akin to a suicide note in weekly installments. Your average working model from the genus Homo sapien becomes sad from life’s predictable tragic events. He loses his job or his dog dies, for example. Whereas a genius can be depressed by his dog’s mere presence, because knowledge in the hands of a genius results in more questions than answers. Is dog ownership moral? Should I really be eating this bacon sandwich in front of him? Shouldn’t I be taking him for longer walks? A genius is a walking question mark. Some of the self-proclaimed pundits in the press insist that depression is merely a chemical imbalance and that was what Robin Williams suffered from, and that was his eventual demise. Unfortunately they don’t know, because they are too ordinary to be depressed, so instead they are sad. Well, you all are; Robin Williams was a very memorable and remarkable man. What they overlook is that genius is already a chemical imbalance and depression the result of the mental exhaustion that accompanies it. The experts aren’t mentally exhausted and therefore believe they are lucid and can explain everything. It’s rather like listening to somebody tell you that they know two-hundred ways to make love, even though everybody knows they don’t have a girlfriend. A little digging into history shows us that the greatest gifts our cultures have ever received came from our most tortured souls. Beethoven was a handful, to say the least. Immanuel Kant refused to come out and play with the other children and chose a life of isolation instead. Lord Byron was addicted to excess in all things and chose to live in exile. Sigmund Freud chain-smoked, fretted about his mother, and took copious quantities of cocaine. Charles Dickens was an obsessive compulsive. Albert Einstein would go bird watching with a violin and play it alone in the woods with tears streaming down his face; he did a few drugs mind you, as his autopsy revealed. Michelangelo was extremely melancholy and solitary, rejecting creature comforts and instead choosing to live an unpleasant and squalid life. Clearly a genius’s lot is not a happy one. So let’s not listen to the rabid media for a change and just be grateful for the gifts we have received from our geniuses. Robin Williams was certainly a genius and analysing the chaos inside his mind is way above your pay-grade. He was cleverer than you, and there was simply a lot more going on in his head. Such hyperactivity wears out flesh and blood and brings chronic fatigue. Robin Williams was tired, and different from you, and now he doesn’t live here anymore. You are all entitled to feel sad about that.”