Dubai was supposed to be a watershed move. A step in the right direction in everything in my life. Career. Finances. Independence. Planning for the future. Watershed it has been, only I’ve rolled so far back I can’t see the point of carrying on. What for? For who? And why? Life just seems to be a distraction while we wait for our turn to be buried. Death takes pot shots at everyone around us. If you’re lucky you get to check out first; you get to miss out on all the fun of death in the family, the death of friends, the shrinking of your world.
Two steps forward, ten steps back.
I had a clear goal moving out to Dubai: clear my debt, and escape a stagnant, uninspiring job that was demanding a fraction of what I am capable of. The execution of these meant financial stability and a job that challenged me creatively, and inspired me. Check. And check. I have those two in spades. On that basis alone, Dubai has been wildly successful, considering where I was at just 13 months ago.
This isn’t an episode of Gary Vee’s life though, so there is more to life than money and career, and it’s there that everything has fallen down. It’s a mess. I go to bed each night praying – hoping – that I won’t wake up the next morning…but each morning without fail, there she is – the desert sun, and the despair.
I used to be broke, but now I’m just broken. Everything is wrong. Every aspect of living is a poison set to torment me, tear me down, and – well. Not quite destroy me, because that at least would be a release. Instead this is a tedious, drawn out attrition of mental, emotional and physical health. An undramatic fade out, only without the implied numbness.
God. Please. If only I had access to feeling numb, being numb, becoming numb. Instead I writhe in constant bile.
The unwanted child.
Nurture your inner child. That’s a line from my therapy sessions I used to go to years ago. Listen and hear what your inner child is saying. Feel what he is feeling. Yeah, well, that little fucker is a poisonous little runt. I’d drown him soon as listen to him. Fucker. Every time there’s anything like a moment of silence, a moment to myself, that inner monologue starts up again. Vile, vicious and hateful. Striking out at everyone and everything around me. Oh god, if I told you some of the things he says to me in the silences that I try so damn hard to shut out. So much hate. So much anger.
Except he is saying everything I am feeling. Everything I am thinking. Behind the smile – ha! What smile? Behind the carefully blank face, there is a rage building up inside me just like all those years ago when the drugs held it all at bay.
But there are no drugs now.
None. And there won’t be, ever. But right now, all I can think about, all I worship and adore is the chemical oblivion I know is just one phone call away. Death, glorious death by overdose. Isn’t that what they’re expecting, anyway?
“They.” Who? I don’t know. But them. The imaginary assholes I people my mind with, the judgers, the better-than-me, the stable, and sorted, and successful, the normal. Are they even real? Hell yeah. They’re real. They follow me everywhere I go, constantly listing my failures. Maybe you can’t see or hear them, but when I look at you, all I see is them. When you speak, it’s them I hear.
The drugs used to fix that, until they couldn’t anymore. The fix. God, everyone has the answers to questions I didn’t know I was supposed to be asking. Everyone has advice, a solution, a glib meme to plaster over my life. And yet I am so aware that the one person I yearn to listen to is also not responsible for my mess. So I feel unheard, shut out by the awareness that the one person who can do something about all this, is me. The person who is actively poisoning my soul and tainting everything about my life.
It’s all on me.
Everything. The noise. The chaos and the failures. The monologues of hate and revulsion. The fix. The actions to be taken. The real fix.
“Long is the way and hard, that out of Hell leads up to light.” John Milton knew. Whatever it is that inspired him to write those words – he knew.
Hell is not the external violence of being alive – rather it is the consciousness behind our eyes. Behind my eyes. Hell is not madness and insanity and detachment from reality; it is the meagerness of spirit, a poverty of self-love, a complete and utter void where the will to live used to be.
So happy I could die.
Envy the dead and dying. I do, you know. Envy them. The ones who died young, or even not so young but who are already gone from here, from this unrewarding, vile existence that cannot be called a life without calling yourself a liar at the same time.
I envy the ones brave enough to end it themselves, and I despise the ones lucky enough to be taken out through sickness, disease, or accident. They’re feeling nothing now. They’re the lucky ones – the people who can’t wake up tomorrow.
Stop. This is not a cry for help.
Stop. Don’t send that message. Don’t write that comment. I didn’t ask for it, and I don’t want it. Stop trying to fix me. I didn’t write this to invite a rush of interventions. This is not a suicide note.
Tomorrow I’ll speak to my therapist for the first time in years. I know enough to know when and who to ask for help.
So I have.
© Dave Luis 2018. All Rights Reserved.