I feel this gaping wound in my chest, a pressure that never seems to leave. I wish that one day I can feel as light as a feather and say to myself that I am truly happy. There are good days, but the bad ones are the majority and make me wonder whether the good ones even make up for it. There are days where I want all of this to end, to feel nothing, to think nothing, to be nothing. There are days where I enjoy the sunshine hugging my skin and where I even let a slight smile escape, yet, the empty hole in my chest is always there, lurking, waiting in the darkness for me as soon as I am alone.
I don’t feel like I am living, rather I am surviving. It is hard to pretend, it is hard to imagine a better tomorrow. After all these years, I have learned coping mechanisms to temporary numb my pain, yet, I wonder: what is the point of these? To make me suffer longer? To postpone my breakdown to the next hour? To fulfill society’s expectations to be strong and not whine and not give up and just cope with it? I am waiting for something to save me, to fill me up. I am constantly searching for the thing that’s missing, the thing that will mend my broken heart. But my biggest fear is that there is nothing to fill me up, that this is just how I am born and how I will die: broken, empty, always sad.
What if there is no solution? What if I will never feel complete? What if I will always be accompanied by this sadness and this immense urge for affection and acceptation? I have tried those ‘love yourself’ things, and sometimes, for an hour or two, they help. But then there is this voice again, whispering that I need someone to validate me, someone that will make me feel loved. And in this search for love, I get more hurt than I was before.
What if there is nobody out there for me? What if I am destined to be alone? To walk this dark path with nobody on my side? What if this sadness will always linger, like a dark cloud above the good times? I am so tired, I have been tired ever since I was born. I have been longing for death since I gasped the first time for air. At least I know that there is one thing that will always be there for me, like a comforting pillow: death. She is my mistress, my savior, my Mozes that leads the slaves out of Egypt. Yet I am a coward and cannot look for her myself, I am that sad, yet not sad enough. That will be my eternal curse: until she comes for me, I have to suffer and wonder why I am here. Why I deserve this pain, why I cannot find what will heal me.
I am writing this because I cannot do anything else but that. I cannot talk to anyone, because they do not understand. I cannot talk to anyone, because they will not listen. I cannot talk to anyone, because I am alone.
Jude's poetry book 