I think about the comfort of death all the time. Not suicide, but death. I don’t think I’d ever have the guts to pull the trigger – but sometimes I think it would be such a relief if someone else did.
Death is a complex thing. I don’t fear it, really. I guess what I fear is the act of dying – not the reality of being dead. I’m not scared of being dead, of no longer existing in this world, of the seductive, terminal rest of the grave. What I fear is the pain of dying – of gasping for breath or feeling excruciating pain. I’ve had enough pain in life, I don’t want that kind of pain in death.
I just wish for eternal sleep. For the ultimate respite – no longer having to feel like my heart is breaking every day. For the disappearance of the petty, everyday barrage of negativity that seems to surround me at the most inconvenient moments. For the deliverance from the abyssal loneliness that takes my breath away. For the cessation of this nightmare of ups and downs that comprises a life full of constant inconsistencies – of never being able to count on myself for anything because I never know what hell my mind or my body will be going through each morning when I wake up.
I want the daydreams of heaven. Of a place where I can be my perfect self, free of this burden of humanity and wrapped in the embrace of a God I know loves me – just seems to forget about me sometimes.
I have love here. I have the love of my life. But sometimes it’s so dark I can no longer see the love in his eyes or feel his warmth. It’s cold and crushing – and even he can’t save me when it gets that bad. He tries so hard and I feel so guilty that I can’t be better for him, but it’s not always in my control. Some moments the only thing that feels like it could save me is death, but it’s a cure I cannot impose upon myself. So I curl up and wait for it to pass, praying for someone to pull the trigger. Pull the trigger on this hell I’m in and send me to heaven.
Pull the trigger and the nightmare stops.