Hope

How long will it take me to die?

The question plagues my mind every second of every day, with every shaky breath I take, with every weak beat from my slowing heart, with every pain I feel come unbidden and unexplained.  I can feel my body deteriorating despite the youthfulness of my features and the few years that have passed since the beginning of my meager existence.  I can’t help but wonder how long I am mean to live.  What plan could I possibly have laid out for myself and what could I possibly be meant to fulfill other than causing further misery to those around me.

Sometimes I seem hell bent on taking everyone down with me.  I don’t mean to, and I do my best to make sure that the circle around myself is as small and far away as possible.  I cannot fathom any reason for others to desire my presence of body or mind.  Perhaps the reason for this lack of understanding the is the simple fact that I, if I were in their shoes, would not seek my company.  I try to separate myself from my own being with such force that I do not recognize the face I see in the mirror.  There is a strange barrier between my mind and body, and as I stare at my reflection I find that I cannot come to terms with the idea nor the comprehension that the person before me is truly me.  It’s an odd feeling, I suppose, but one so familiar and so ingrained in my soul that I can think in no other way. 

The face, as it stares back at me, is not unpleasant.  If I looked with an unbiased perspective, perhaps I would even term it beautiful.  But alas, I cannot do such a thing.  I shun those who deem my poor being worthy of a compliment, desperately trying and failing to understand what it is they see.  Am I so delusional that I picture someone else in the glass?  Is my mind so distorted?  Or is it theirs that requires help because they are the ones who warp their idea of beauty so much that I could possible fit in it?

I know that I’m a troubled soul.  I’m caught between reality and illusion, and I can’t seem to find a firm grasp on the world.  I can’t face the concept that I’m truly alive, always seeking death as assurance because then I might feel something.  I feel as though I want to be separate from my body so that I can watch how it interacts with people around it, in a futile attempt to discover the meaning of my life.  As I am now, I fail to see how I have any purpose at all in this world, and I can’t recognize that my death would have any significant impact on any one being.  A few individuals may weep slightly at my passing, but I am convinced that is because they feel that is what is required of them.  It is an ingrained response to a death, an instinct, what is expected, but not a genuine emotional response.

I still live in the hope that one day I will finally realize what is worth living for or what I am seeking that my life is currently without.  I am devoid of whatever motivates others to continue on with their existing; I am just a black hole sucking in whatever life form chooses to come to close.  Flinching at the touch of others, running from any emotional response, hiding from feelings or needs of the body—anything to confirm that I am a living, breathing, human being.  I shun that fact with the hopes that I can overcome this barrier of being contained in a body.  I just want to float up in the sky with my disturbed thoughts and twisted ideals.

I can’t tell if this is who I am or who I’m trying to be.  I can no longer distinguish between the façade and what is real.  When I laugh, I wonder if I am truly laughing or merely pretending.  It often sounds like a hollow, chilling, eerie sound to me because I know that I am not actually happy.  The sound that escapes my throat does so out of necessity in order to prevent odd looks I would receive if I chose to remain stoic.  I smile to act as though a person has amused me or said something that requires such an upturn of the lips, but inside my mind is merely turning its wheels trying to think of the correct way to respond.  It requires a great amount of energy from my body, and when I am too exhausted or mentally weary…that is when people ask if something is wrong.  Sometimes I find more strength within my caffeine laden being to shake my head and grin, assuring them not to worry.  ‘I just need more coffee,’ I say.  But really, I need someone to shake me.  I need someone to tell me everything will be alright.  I need someone to love me for being me. 

For as insane as my mind has grown and as shattered as I have become, there is still a small part of me…a tiny part still hoping.

Perhaps I have not lost it all.