incomplete

01/28/2007
tiffany

i'm sick and i'm tired.
i'm tired of leading this fucking half-life. i'm tired of pretending to be someone i'm not- of crying all the way to and from work, but pasting on a fake smile as soon as i walk through any door and posing as a productive member of society. i'm tired of not having any reason to live other than my duty to those around me. fuck duty. i've served my time. and who is paying back anything they owe? i'm always the one holding everyone's hand through every crisis they face, but grasping desperately in my own hour of need and finding nothing but empty air (or a well-intentioned incident of "slipping through their fingers").
and so i've stopped reaching out at all. pessimism, though only slightly, is less painful than trust broken. all the same, it's a life not worth living. so i stare at the boxcutter, at the booze in my fridge, at all the pills in my cabinet, at any amount of water sufficient to drown me, at any drop large enough to kill- at anything i see that could conceivably end my life- and i wonder. what would it be like? what would it be like to feel (or not feel) anything other than this? i can't say that i know what is on "the other side" for sure, but i am ready for any change.
but most of all- what would it be like to be understood?
suicide could, potentially, confuse everyone even more. but a well-written note would help with that (who am i kidding? i would have to write a whole fucking novel to try to explain why this is my best option). i've never quite found the right words to describe just how unable i am to deal with everything, how strong i only pretend to be... and you know what they say:
actions speak louder than words.
but i digress.
i've resigned myself to the fact that i won't ever know the answers to my questions. the one person who should understand most has condemned me to rot in this hell alone. what else can i call it but rotting? everytime i hurt myself another part of me dies.
and yet i continue playing my part. i am the biggest deceiver i know- but truth proves the beauty of deception. in fact, i've excelled so much at lying, i can't even always tell when i'm lying to myself anymore. still, it's a remedy that grows weaker with every use- and is quickly becoming too little to convince me to carry on.
so the guilt, the shame, the desperation, the unheard screams, the unseen tears, and the unknown scars are all that remain.
the truth is, i'm already dead. i've been gone for far longer than even i can wrap my head around. i still breathe, i still hear, i still feel, i still write, but only as a shadow of the person i used to be.
and so my death remains incomplete.
i remain incomplete.