By Summer Mason
I wake up with feelings of my body so porous and fluid that it seems that there are not enough hands of my friends to extend to stop the bleeding. So I hold myself together, with my fragile arms and I rock back and forth, blasting “Gimme All Your Love.” What does this music do for me? Does it curate my thoughts and emotions in a way I am incapable of during a depressive episode such as this one, or do I enjoy allowing its volume to wash over the three harrowing voices that bounce around the walls of my head? Whatever it is…I realize one thing: I cannot coexist with my depression anymore. We fight and it seems like I’m the only one that walks away with wounds. Wounds so deep that not even the closest people that surround me can heal.
I don’t know what to do with you anymore, my dear friend—while, I want to be able to hold normative conversations with normative individuals, its almost like you will not let me. I can’t wait to get away from you. I know you hate me too. That’s why you isolate us from those who bring me warmth. You are upset that I am going to leave you. You are upset that I don’t need you anymore. You are upset that you may lose me. You are upset that I have found someone new to depend on. You want me to give you all my love. Oh but best friend, dark partner of mine, you never ask—you’ve never extended your hands to heal the body you’ve made so porous and bloody. Your fear brings us both discomfort. So I tell you this. I don’t want to fight anymore. You win. I know that if I sit with you and revel in the blood that we both share, it will finally feel like we are one, like we finally coexist in harmony, like you are finally giving me all YOUR love, that it is your hands now that extend over the wounds you’ve created to hold us together. Finally.
This is my suicide letter I write not to the people that surround me with arms ready to hold me, but to you dear old dark friend of mine. You won. I lie wounded, while you stand above me triumphantly. The holes in my body are now sealed…no more blood will flow. We are finally one. If this is what whole feels like, I’ll take it. So come into me, friend. Take my hand. Sit with me in a space where I have stopped both our pain. Where the only blood that flows out of my body is recycled back to your bleeding heart. Take my hand. Take my hand, one last time. Take my hand, I will heal us both. No more fighting. Here is all my love.
Love now and always,