Disappointed to breathe.

It’s the most beautifully tragic sensation, free-falling.

I woke up this morning, and heard myself breathing. Heard my heart beating. I’m accustomed to waking up either grateful for that sensation – I made it through another day – or on the other end of the scale, despairing that I had to make it through another day.

Today? Neither. Instead, I felt resigned disappointment, and in actual fact this was somehow more unbearable than absolute despair. I didn’t scream into my pillow, as I have done at times, screaming for the cruelty of the situation that I have to keep living… that nothing seems to kill me, that I seem to have more lives than a cat. I just lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, simply wondering why? Why do I have to keep waking up? Why can’t it end? I lay on my back, gently crying, and just staring at the ceiling. Wishing Heaven was that close. Wishing I could just stand up and touch Heaven, and calmly leave my broken corpse behind.

But no. I had, yet again, woken up alive. I’ve lost count of the suicide attempts. Lost count of how many times I should have, by rights, died. When I’m despairing, I feel that the entire universe is against me, and making me live just to torture me further. Today, I just felt disappointed. I believed the universe had been trying it’s damned hardest to kill me, and even with my consent, had failed. It had let me down. Rather than feeling against the universe, I sympathised with it. My body was against me and the universe; that was the problem here. As I lay there and heard the constant, teasing rhythm of my heartbeat, and thought about what had happened just hours before…and then how many times I’ve tried before this, so many times I’ve tried… and so many times my heart just keeps going.

I managed to get myself up and dressed about 5 minutes before my appointment with my care co-ordinator. After she left, I crawled back into bed, pulled the quilt around my head, put my phone on silent and cried myself to sleep. I knew I had emails to answer, essays to write…. fuck them I thought. If I’d succeeded, they wouldn’t happen anyway.

I got out of bed just over an hour ago, after waking up again to discover I could still breathe. What warped cruelty was this? That pain should leave me mentally gasping for breath, mentally choking and mentally unable to continue…and yet my physical self was carrying on regardless. Breathing. Stop..fucking..breathing.

I have been covering for my host for the last couple of weeks. Only a handful of people know. I am supposed to mirror her perfectly; nobody knows what I am like actually. Nobody can tell the difference, really, between me and my host. In most ways this is good, in some ways however, it’s worse. People expect her. People expect her capacity to logically work out and unpick every paradox thrown at her. People expect her compassion. People expect her ability to keep going no matter how many times the world rips her heart.

I am not her. She has crashed. She’s been babbling incoherently in a corner for the last few days, absolute nervous breakdown. I was doing okay….but then a host of things happened at once in the last 48 hours; I found myself backed against a wall, in an extreme level of stress and mental pain, and I collapsed.

So here we are. Our host having a mental breakdown, reasonably… me on the verge of suicide, reasonably. It’s all going just great in DID land. The littles are trying to cheer me up, and God bless them they are doing their best.

But we’re free-falling. You can have the strongest amount of willpower possible, but no amount of inner strength is going to defy gravity if you get pushed off a cliff. It’s that simple. My host went as far as she could possibly go, right onto the brink, still kept trying to fight back and trying to get out of the hell she had been mentally put in…she did so well…but she got shoved, sharply, and fell off the cliff. I held her hand for as long as I could, and then got shoved by other stuff…and so here we are. Falling, gracefully, together.

We don’t scream. There’s no point. What use would screaming do? We know at some point we’ll smack onto the ground. Maybe there’ll be trees to break a bit of our fall, so that the impact is less severe. Or maybe there won’t be. I have no idea. I’m facing the sky and free-falling. It’s heart-breaking and painful being here; watching everything we fought for just…disappear. Will to live gone, not due to despair…but just simply too much pain, too much grief, and being shoved off the top of a cliff. Colours rush past me, a beautiful kaleidescope of colours…images flashing, birds flying, and colours…colours just racing… even in our darkest and heaviest moments, the colours don’t leave us. Even free-falling has it’s colour. It’s beauty.

So I’m calm now, knowing that if I hit the floor too hard and don’t wake up one day…I at least had colours to lull me, soothe me and captivate me as I fell. As I slept today, all I saw was blurry colours, and all I heard was the whoosh of air as I fell.



One thought on “Disappointed to breathe.

  1. You my friend hang in there. I just had a similar conversation with a close friend last night. We are both the same age 52, wow thats old 🙂 when I type it. We have both lived through 52 years over trauma and pain from abuse. We both have been suicidal and supported each other , thankfully we both have not had the suicide thoughts at the same time. I have come to realize, this is it ! We have one shot at life on this planet. As fucked up as its been so far we need to leave making a positive difference. I have no clue why my life was spared when I was beat, raped and stabbed. But I am here and so are you and we have to hang in there and try to make a difference as hard as it can be . Our next life in our next plane will be one of peace I am sure if we can get through this one. Sending you love and also, you are an amazing writer. You have a gift!

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