The question whether to live or die has been most tantalizing for me. If i believe myself courageous then i would have to brave up the rest of the day, prepare breakfast and take a shower. Mundane things not thought about by anyone in their normal adult frame of mind, but for a depressive borderline, it is a daily mental dialogue. Each day i make a resolve why it's all worth waking up to. Then, as if as like watching a play, another day has closed. The utter unbearability of having one's self as hideous company will fade with the last violet rays of twilight.
All my life i have searched for reliefs that came in self-destructive forms. Tempestuous relationships, occupations and travel, all of which are like putting a stop-cork in a boiling cauldron. Using the adjective "hideous" gives the clue on the extent of this self-loathing. Voices like Medusa's snake-head hissing without end. Cutting only intensifies the cacophonic chorus of self-reproach and bad memories.
My panaceas are all closing down on me. There is no relief forthcoming. I can silence the pain with my own freedom if i can get used to inflicting the violence myself. I have no vampire-boyfriend to give me the lashings now. Damn, i loved every minute of those lashings, in exchange for moments of rapture being with my demon-beloved.
Dying a thousand times as Sylvia Plath would say in her poem "Lady Lazarus" is an art she does so well. I do it better. Would it matter if i finally plunge the stake in my own bleeding heart, to finally feel the peace that has evaded me for life? The courage to die will take a more resolute and braver soul for it to execute. For the mean time and until i muster up the guts, i am cooking myself a noodle dish for lunch.
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