So, first and foremost, this... piece... is a comment to and directly inspired by Miss Rebecca's ( TheEmptyChest ) poem
When they say something's wrong with youI’m going to be shamelessly honest
and say the more I see of life
the less I think it’s worth living,
because let’s face it,
it doesn’t truly get better
it just changes;
suffering and loss
are hurdles on a never-ending
that you’re expected to run
for the rest of your life.
And God help you
if you don’t want to run it
because that means something's wrong with you.
That means you’re crazy.
I’m going to be fearless
and say something that no one wants
to hear, or is likely to believe:
the “right to life” is a myth,
because to have a right
is to have a choice
and life is an obligation.
To want to end it
means you need “help”—
either in the form of a crucified savior
or an expert with a Ph.D. and an eagerness
to label you.
All it really means is that you
don’t want to run that damn obstacle course,
and you shouldn’t have to
because you were never given a choice
from the beginning,
, it's an older piece of her's but it's wonderful and it touches upon a darker, messier subject than most are used to, one that people definitely don't consider enough without resorting to knee-jerk reactions and overly-emotional responses. I had a lot to say - and a particular way to say it - because of my own thoughts, feelings and experiences with the subject. Clearly I have, personally, come down on a somewhat different side of the perspective than Rebecca herself but I definitely do not necessarily disagree with her and it's for a simple reason - my reasons are my own and sometimes they're just not enough. That's the point. We all end up in different places for different reasons, with different reasons and to immediately
disagree with that is dismissive and ultimately wrong. Things have context, people have considerations and everyone's just different enough to be confusing as hell. I know why I'm here, do you?
Sometimes the stupidest things keep us going and, sometimes, the stupidest things stop us dead.
Once, when I was younger, the only thing I actually looked forward to in my life was the release of a movie - it wasn't my 'reason for living' by any stretch of the notion, but it was definitely a consideration when I was sitting there on the floor of my room, wondering how much blood there would be if I put my ornamental sword through my stomach. What stopped me the most, there, was the idea of some innocent family member having to discover me and, more horribly, maybe clean up the mess. I was never enough of an asshole to put anyone through that and, to this day, that's one of the little things I tell myself whenever I consider suicide. What poor bastard deserves to clean up this mess? The answer is obvious - no one.
Another time I looked forward to the release of some books - my shining lights in an otherwise miserable existence. Harry Potter, books 6 & 7. It's the little things, you know?
Sometimes, a girl will smile at me and I won't understand why - I couldn't tell you if it was a reflex or a genuine smile meant for me but the not-knowing is as important as the gesture, sometimes, because it gives me something else to figure out, another little reason to wonder, a bit longer and stick around. I'm not suicidal, but I'd be a goddamn liar if I said it didn't whisper in my ear from time to time and I'm definitely not a goddamn liar - what I am is appreciative of the little things.
I remember reading about how when safety nets were installed on a bridge that was a popular spot for suicidal people that those the nets saved often expressed how their immediate reaction to jumping was regret - what a horrible mistake they just made, jumping off that bridge. I've always thought that hindsight is often useless - how about a little foresight for once? Just another little reason to keep my feet mostly on-the-ground.
I think it's healthy to be able to admit the possibilities even though it may also be a bit maddening - I am fully aware that I do not know what tomorrow will bring and that five, ten, twenty, thirty years from now I may have found the love that I desire but I am also quite aware that plenty of stories do not have happy endings. There are people out there who never found what they were looking for (be it love or something else) and ended up living and dying alone. It happens
. And it's nothing unique, either - it has happened for the last hundreds or thousands of years and it will continue to happen for the next few hundred or few thousand years (so long as people exist) to all kinds of people. I am not above admitting that I could be a simple statistic and that the hope that drives me could be as empty as the life it perpetuates - talk about cyclic redundancy.
Then again, I'm weird - I accept all sorts of things without necessarily letting them impact my self-perception negatively. I think I am ugly but I also think of it is just another character trait, as inextricable from my being as being tallish, brown and intelligent. I could no more change that fact about myself than I could actually
change my hair color (I think the notion of dying my hair is fittingly metaphoric for otherwise believing that I am something I am not) or my eye color. It took a long time to accept it is a neutral character trait, but I did and in doing so I found a measure of peace about something that tears most people apart. I think that accepting the truth or accepting reality can be peaceful like that, even if it comes down to having to accept something bad - such as a horrendous lack-of-luck with women or being treated decently in general.
I've got a choice and I'm trying, every day, to choose grace.