Best friends can meet in such strange places. Boyfriends and girlfriends too for that matter. Most best friends meet via school and I’ve heard about a lot of old people who have stayed together since the day they first met. I never saw the point in making friends with someone in my class because somehow I already knew them and they were all the same. Interested in looking the best, getting all the boys etc. That was never me and I was never interested in having a conversation with someone who was too focused on being the most popular rather than discussing things that really matter.
I met my best friend at a party. Yes, a quite boring place to meet your best friend for the first time, I know. Usually drunk girls call whoever they meet at a party as their best friend, but this was different. Totally different. She was sitting all alone on a chair in a corner and I could see on her face that she knew she didn’t fit in with any of the people and she was absolutely right. First of all I have to say that me and my best friend are totally different. I didn’t even like her at first, she seemed stupid and there were so many simple things I had to explain to her over and over again because she didn’t understand any of it. I completely changed my mind about wanting to get to know her, but it seemed like I didn’t have a choice. She called me, I don’t know, around 20 times the following week asking if I had the time to hang out with her. At the end I got so tired of her calls that I said yes. Nothing bad could come out of it, right?
The next day arrived and I went over to her house. At first it was a little weird because she apologized for calling me so many times and we didn’t have a lot to talk about. She said that she had actually seen me at several parties and that she came to the last one because she wanted to talk to me. After three or four hours I went home and I started thinking. She didn’t act like she did at the party at all, maybe it was just the alcohol. She’s smart, she’s funny, she’s caring, she’s everything I can think of actually. I decided to call her a little later in the evening and ask if she was up to anything tomorrow. She didn’t have any plans, so we hung out. We had a really great time and she is probably one out of two persons I can talk to about anything and not feel bad about it. I’m extremely glad I met her.
In my last post I talked about the despair I feel whenever I’m not able to write and the only person who has really seen my true despair is my boyfriend. He’s the only person who has seen how it truly affects me and he’s the only one who has supported me in times like these. He knows how to deal with me when I can’t get up in the morning or whenever I start acting up. He has seen the darkest parts of me and somehow he still wants to be in my life. He still wants to share it with me. It’s nice to finally have someone who hugs me whenever they see that I need it, someone who stays with me and put up with all the shit I say to them even though I know nobody deserves hearing certain things. I’m sure that my boyfriend would be long gone if he was someone else, but he isn’t gone and words can’t tell you how thankful I am for having him in my life.
There have been so many times where I’ve told him such shitty things he doesn’t deserve hearing. I can’t begin to explain how bad I feel about it and how much I wish I could take everything back. I’ve seen him cry because of me, I’ve seen his pain and his rage and I know how much I’ve hurt him. The weird thing about all of this is that he’s still here. He hasn’t left me. He deserves much better than me, someone who doesn’t take her rage out on him, and I’m pretty sure I don’t deserve him. He’s much better without me, but he says after each fight that he won’t give up. He won’t let me go and that is something I love so dearly about him. He accepts me for who I am and he’s the best thing that has ever happened to me. I’ve told myself over and over again that I need to get myself together, find something else that my rage can destroy, but it’s hard. It’s really hard, but I will do that for him. I don’t want to lose him, ever.
I never thought my life would change this quickly – going from being a 21 year-old girl living at her parents’ house with no job, no boyfriend, no hope for the future what so ever, to getting a job (which I now think is my ultimate dream job too), a wonderful, loving boyfriend and my own apartment. Everything is going on a too fast pace and everything is almost perfect, yet there is one thing missing: I’m not writing. I’m a writer, but I can’t write. I’m trying my best, I really am, but nowadays there’s this big wall in my head that is separating me and my words – the words that once was my escape and my dearest love.
Sometimes I sit beside my desk and read through everything I’ve ever written and I can’t do anything but laugh at how hopeless I’ve become. The girl who once made words into small pieces of art is completely gone. She’s dead and I don’t like it. Not the tiniest bit. I can’t cont how many times the despair has fought me, how it has been screaming in my ear, and I can’t count how many times I’ve been sitting beside my desk crying or laying awake in the middle of the night without getting any sleep. My biggest love has never been a human being, it has always been words – how they cradle me in their lap and tell me that everything is going to be okay, how they make me feel that I’m alive, that I’m actually worth something, that I’m capable of doing something beautiful with my mind – nothing makes me feel better, but now the magic is gone. I don’t know where it went or if it will ever come back – all I know is that I can’t live without that special magic that makes the world seem more beautiful than it really is.
60. I don’t want to become so old that I can’t take care of myself any more and need others to do the job for me. I don’t want anyone to wash me, feed me, that is probably the biggest disgrace of all time for me. There are no bigger hopes for me other than that I want to be able to take care of myself for as long as I’m able to.
I’ve seen how bad it is at those homes where the elderly are put when they no longer can take care of themselves and I don’t want to be imprisoned at a house where I can’t do whatever I want. I want to be able to still go outside and enjoy a cup of coffee, a cigarette, the morning suns warmth on my face. There is no way I’m going to be forced to live at a home like the ones I’ve seen, not even the slightest hope for those who want me to live until I’m a 100 years old. This is my life and I’ll do whatever I’d like with it, even decide how old I want to be.
There is a big chance I don’t have the need for someone else taking care of me when I get old though, since no one in my family have ever gone to one of those homes where they need help to eat, wash themselves and walk. I’m grateful for that, so maybe there’s no need in me dying “young” (60 isn’t that young, but it’s not old either). Hopefully I’ll not be the first one in the family to go to one of those homes, I bet I’ll cry my eyes out if I have to.
I don’t know if you guys understand what I’m talking about because I don’t know if you’ve got similar homes in your country. There are homes that take care of elders, they help them with everything they need. It’s great that they want to help, but it’s not one of my dreams to end up in a home like that.
I miss you dearly. I miss hearing your voice speaking my name so softly when you’re waking me up. I miss seeing your caring eyes glinting at me and your warm hands that cradled me every time I felt sad. I miss your chocolate cake drowned in vanilla custard. I miss our nights out at the porch, smoking cigarettes, looking at the stars and talking about everything between heaven and hell. If I had the chance, I would’ve visited you right at this time, but you know I’m no shape to do that. If only I could give you money to travel up here and visit me.
Don’t say sorry for waking me up with those late night calls of yours because I love them. There is nothing to be sorry about. You’re not even waking me up. It soothes me to hear your voice when it’s past midnight because I know that you’re okay. I know you’re lonely and I’m glad I’m the first person you call when you need someone to talk to. Just remember that I’m always here for you, I’ll always be here for you. You’re like a mother to me and I appreciate that you stood up for my father when I wasn’t there to help him. He was one lucky man and I can’t imagine how it was for you to lose the love of your life. You’ll always have me. You won’t lose me to an overdose, that I can promise you.
It’s only a few months left and then it’s Christmas. I have the whole house to myself. My family is going away and I told them I wanted to stay home. Maybe we could celebrate Christmas together? You, grandmother and me? Imagine the three of us sitting around the table, eating good food, drinking wine. Red, the way you like it. Imagine how much fun we would have in this big house. Just the three of us. Wouldn’t that be nice?
I’m actually thinking about sending this letter to her. What do you think?
It drags you down into the deepest of sorrows and keep you there until you’re able to get out of its hands with a smile on your face. It makes you see all the horrible things the mind can create and won’t let you go until you finally start appreciating the good things in like. Small things like looking forward to that warm cup of tea in the morning or the smile on your mothers face when you tell her that you love her. Small things like feeling the autumn breeze in your hair and the crying of a newborn baby that indicates that it’s completely healthy.
Waking up seems like something of the hardest things to do in the morning because you see no reason in why you should even get out of bed. You can’t eat, you can’t even sleep, there’s no purpose in doing any of those things. Maybe you’re not even able to communicate with the rest of the world. Your body feels like it’s rotting. It feels like it’s shutting down, one day at a time and you can’t do anything about it. All you can do is wait for the end. You listen to music all day long, you lie in your bed and things that made you laugh so much that your abs started hurting doesn’t even make you smile any more.
Depression consumes you and it’s hard to get out of its grip once you’re stuck there. You feel no hope, you never see the light at the end of the tunnel as every person you’ve talked with say that you will and the pain is neverending. It rips open a whole in your heart and no matter how hard you try to fill it, something keeps pouring it out. Your body is one big, empty shell and it feels like your soul has left you for dead. There’s no future, there’s no anything and you can’t keep yourself from smiling when you look at yourself in the mirror and can’t recognize the reflection smiling back at you.
Picture taken from here
I think this is how death looks like. How I imagine it when people say “…and then you see the light” to you. You’re walking slowly towards it, feeling the intense curiosity consume you. You’re getting closer with every, single step you take and finally the light eats you whole. It consumes every part of you like it was its own. Or maybe it’s the light you see at the end of a tunnel. Weather you’re fighting depression, anxiety or any other disorder. Maybe this is what you see when you’re finally able to feel hope again. A new start. A new life without dark thoughts. A new beginning.
When I’ve talked to some people who have survived either a suicide or an attempted murder, they say the same thing. “It was beautiful and the only thing washing through me was relief. When you see the light… You’re no longer afraid”. Not every surviving victim I’ve talked to said the exact same thing, but it was close to what I just wrote. They all said that they felt a kind of relief. I don’t really understand that because when I was done with the worst part of depression, I didn’t quite see the light. I didn’t feel relieved either. It was just a kind of… Weird feeling. It was good, but I’ve never understood the concept of “seeing the light at the end of the tunnel”. Maybe I’m just not totally off the hook from depression or maybe it’s just not everybody who is able to see the light.
I remember talking to one of the surviving victims and she said that she didn’t feel scared at all. Not even from the beginning. She was just happy that everything was going to be fine. She already let go the first second of the kidnapping. That was weird, but some are just.. Glad that they’re going to die. I feel bad for her because she actually told me she wanted to die, but the killer wasn’t able to finish. I won’t ever understand why people want to die.
It was winter and I refused to go to school. My dad has just gotten out of the hospital and all I wanted to do was lying in my bed. I wasn’t allowed to visit him because there was still a long time until vacation. Everyone who knows me well know that I’m not giving up until I’ve gotten what I wanted and my mother knows it best. It didn’t take so many days until she sat me on the bus heading towards dad. I was only 10 years-old and crying the whole way, in approximately 6 hours. A lot of people asked me what was wrong and all I said was “I’m going to see my dad”. They asked me if I didn’t want to and if I were forced to meet him, but all I could manage to say was “Are you crazy?”.
My stepmother stood parked by the bus station when I arrived and I ran towards her car. She wasn’t in it. Suddenly I felt panic spreading across my body because I didn’t have a cell phone at that age. I sat down in the middle of the street (there were almost no cars driving on the road so it was safe). Tears didn’t want to show up, surely because I had been crying for the last 6 hours. I was so tired that I actually fell asleep in the middle of the street. When I woke up, I was lying in my king size bed at my fathers house and I couldn’t do anything else but smile. I put on some clothes, ran downstairs and saw dad sitting there in the sofa, with his faithful chocolate bar in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He saw me, jumped right out of the sofa and hugged me. I think I was with him for at least 2 months and that’s the longest I’ve ever been away from home. At least what my mother looks at as home, but my home would always be wherever my father was.
The pulse slows down and you can’t feel your heart beating. Dizziness, numbness, burning lungs.
Holding my breath is one of the things that makes me feel alive. I even think that’s the only thing that can make me feel really alive. I’ve tried a lot of things, but there’s nothing that’s caught my attention more than holding my breath. I can feel my body starting to shut down, but at the same time doing its best to stay alive. It’s wonderful. Everybody know that you can’t kill yourself by holding your breath so that’s not something I’m worried about, it’s just nice to be able to feel alive when I want to. I do this often, too often actually, because lately I’ve caught myself holding my breath without thinking about it. My body is in such a desperate need to feel alive that it does things on its own. It’s weird. Knowing that you’re desperate for something to come your way that makes you feel like you’re living, searching for the right thing. I’ve been searching for years, but haven’t found anything else than holding my breath to satisfy my needs. It’s pure, it’s easy, but I don’t like doing things the easy way. That’s why I’m still searching for the right thing.
I’ve tried extreme sports, everything just to feel that little boost of life, but it doesn’t even give me an adrenaline kick. Stealing does, getting away with things gives me an adrenaline kick, but that’s not right. That’s not what I’m looking for, not really, but if that’s the only thing that’s ever going to make me feel alive, then that’s the only thing I need to do. I refuse to give up on the only things that makes me feel alive, even when I know it’s wrong.
The dark comforts me. It’s something special sitting in a completely dark room or walking outside in the middle of the night just looking at the stars and listening to the silence.
My father always thought it was weird when I went out at night because I was only 9 years old and not afraid of the dark. He allowed me to go out since he lived at a place where you couldn’t find people even if you drove for an hour. Except for my grandmother and stepmother, there were nobody out there. That was the best part, I’ve told you before that I love imagining that I’m the only person left on earth and I’ve always enjoyed that. That’s why I used to stay up late at night and go out, I couldn’t see any houses or other people and the only thing I could hear was the sound of the river and the singing of the birds.
I couldn’t do that when I was back home at my mothers house because she lived in a town and she would worry her sanity away if I went out. There was one time I did go out though and she yelled so much at me when I came home that I didn’t dare do it again. That was fine, it was still dark when I woke up and I went out into our garden and sat down. She’s always been wondering why I like the thought of being completely alone in the world, but I can’t tell her because I don’t know the reason myself. It’s just soothing and the dark and silence means extremely much to me. I don’t know what I would’ve done if the sun was shining all the time and the night never showed up. Well, I could sit in my room with the curtains closed, but it’s not the same to not hear the birds singing and the cold breeze on my face.