Letter to a shrink

 

Mental anguish is nothing to joke about. They have treatment for it. They even consider it a disease. I’ve never tried prescription drugs to pacify or numb my sorrow. Some think that I should. I’ve never cared much for public opinion anyway.

 

At some point, it all collides and changes. Your perspective gets altered; your soul tainted and your mind marked by the inevitable. Life keeps on evolving, taking a different shape and colour right in front of you.  You try to hang on real tight, just so you won’t fall off. It gets harder to do the simplest things, like breathing and talking. You walk somehow agitated and nervous. Your mind wanders and you seem distracted. You don’t know what hit you. But something is definitely wrong now. Your smile looks fake. Nothing pleases you. You don’t enjoy the basic pleasures of life. You are trapped in this cycle, this awful routine that chokes and suffocates you. You can’t sleep at night. You spend all day worried. You can’t eat. You begin to forget what a moment of fun is like. You start losing emotions. Nothing makes you laugh. You can’t even cry because your whole body feels numb. You start doing things by default, not because you truly want to do them. Nothing excites you. You’re suddenly dead and gone, but you’re still breathing. You’re still awake. You start hearing voices in your head. You get to the point where you don’t trust anyone. You only talk to the ones that you’re obliged to talk to. Life flies by and you feel left behind, left out. It’s like you’re invisible, yet you can see your own reflection in the mirror.

 

But what do you see? The remains of what once was a whole person, a good soul with no other purpose but to exist in harmony with others. You’re emotionally gone. You feel cold all the time. You want to cry, but tears won’t come out.

 

Horrible thoughts haunt you. The possibility of ending life as it is starts to look pretty good, like the ultimate answer to fix things. So you focus on it, day and night. It becomes your reality, all you feel, all you think about: Death. It’s there, calling you, wanting to get you. You come closer and closer to the edge. Nothing can stop you now. Nothing can save you. You’ve lost hope. You’ve lost a sense of reality. You don’t exist, other people don’t exist either. You have a purpose, you have a meaning. Now you must find a way. So you get an evil weapon, the one that tags along with your tragic faith. A gun, pills, a blade. It doesn’t matter. You want it to end. You can’t look at yourself anymore. You’re done waiting. You’re done trying. Life wasn’t easy. Too much pain, too many questions with no enough answers. So you pull the trigger, drink the bottle of pills, cut the skin. All of the above, all at once. Now you’re your worst enemy. You have your life in your hands, but you don’t want it anymore. Too late to be sorry, too late to take it back. Nobody exists, only you and your pain. Hatred, anger, despair…you own them all. It’s all trash, you need a release. You need a break from yourself. No time left. You don’t want to be awake.

 

You tried so hard to hide it. You tried so hard to pretend everything was fine, yet you spent all day dreaming about being a corpse and what it would feel like to succumb under all this unbearable pressure. You’re a burden to others, a threat to yourself. There’s no way out.  This is the end.

 

Have you ever felt this way?