Time out

I’ve decided to stop writing for awhile. I’m just too broken these days; too lost. Too many pieces that seem like they should fit, but they don’t. Writing about it used to make me feel better, but it doesn’t anymore. It just magnifies how lost I really am.

Hating myself and my life

When I was 20, I tried to kill myself. I sometimes tell people I was 16. I’m not sure why. Maybe because I had more reason at age 16 and should have tried it then. Maybe I would have succeeded. At age 20, I failed. But it wasn’t because I didn’t try. My plan was fine; I just didn’t take into account everything that might happen. There’s no way I could have. Because not in my wildest dreams could I have know that someone who hated me would ultimately save me.

I was 20 and my world was crumbing or had crumbled. There was nothing left to live for. The man I loved was slowly going crazy. I had no job, no home. I could find no warmth. Everything was cold and frozen and dirty. I was more alone than I had ever been in my life. There was so much nothing.

I’ve always wished for a different life. I’ve always wondered why everything has to hurt. All the time. Why memories and ghosts and the coldness of my past is always there. And why the people I think I love seldom are. At least not when I need them. Which is always.

Life could have been over at 20. And yes, I would have missed out on some magical moments. But magic is an illusion. I sometimes wonder if it all isn’t an illusion. These feeling that I think I have to write about and this love in my heart that threatens to tear a hole through my skin and scream its existence to the world.

I hear it sometimes, in the sound of a city bus pulling away from the curb. A train whistle in the distance. The muffled thud of a door closing as someone walks in, and then out.

I shouldn’t be here. And yet, I am.