It’s strange how things can escalate pretty quickly to this point in time. I, in the fetal position on my bed, whimpering from the pain but not being able to cry. I knew this would happen eventually but it still didn’t prepare me for the reality of being conscious through it all.
There are moments that break through the repetitive days of existing when you’re alert and changing the gears at the moment as opposed to the previous auto-pilot motion. This is that moment. This is that thing where we say that we are “living”.
I’m whimpering from the deep ache that stretches from my lower stomach to my back. It’s somatic. There’s no definitive cause with easy and quick treatment. And I know it more than anyone who thinks they could. Maybe that’s why I didn’t call anyone or asked for anyone’s help despite it being 2am. I know they wouldn’t be able to help me, and all suggestions would amount to nothing because I’ve already tried everything. The hot baths, the heat pack, the hibiscus tea, stretching, massaging, and pain medications. A quick trip to the ER would only result in another over-the-counter prescription and an “it’ll get better, just hold on”. Somatic pain gets no sympathy, let alone strong pain meds.
Part of me is somewhat grateful that I’m not fragile. It’s not my first rodeo, it’s not like I don’t know how to wallow in agony alone and quietly. I’ve done it hundreds of times. And most times, people aren’t my first go-to. Not even my family. Not even my mum. Isn’t that funny? In the moment of my torturous agony, I’m not wishing that my mum was here holding me. What would that be like? To wish to be comforted by your safe haven who is your mother. The comfort, love, nurture, patience, and strength. I couldn’t lie, I pretended for a couple of seconds to imagine what that would be like. But the imagination dissipated quicker than it was formed, that’s not how it would be. The reality was harsher. She doesn’t know that the cause of the pain dates back to childhood, cascading as dominos to this moment where I am withering from antidepressant withdrawal. She doesn’t know that I take antidepressants. She doesn’t know me, although she thinks she does.
What would you call this? An act of strength, to be going through this pain alone and not calling mother. Is this really strength? That’s what my friends would say after I relay to them an episode of this illness and how I had to deal with it alone. They’ll say, “you are so strong to be going through this and still managing to accomplish your day-to-day basics”. Episodes like these are so often that I don’t have the luxury to just call in sick. I’ll be there, sitting in the lecture hall early in the morning. Physically I am there. Mentally, I may be clocked out. Drooping over the seat, feet tapping restlessly waiting for it to be over. I do this so casually; people don’t suspect or ask. People can’t see the discomfort, the millions of dangerous thoughts racing through my mind with every second in the room with them. I guess that’s why suicides are surprising.
Living is the nightmare, and a gun to my head is a dream. Fantasizing it at the moment is oddly relieving. An end to the pain. But it’ll only be a dream. Maybe this is what they actually mean when my friends compliment my strength. It’s that despite all that I’ve gone through, I still fight against the easy way out. Maybe the thought of them experiencing a sliver of what I go through would cripple them. Why do I keep fighting? I tend to justify by saying that this is my fair share of suffering, in the way that everyone will be made to suffer while they are living. Tapping out when it gets hard isn’t an option. Weathering through the pain is what I do.
Jar Of Dark Stars 