it comes and goes in waves

Tally: 5.

That's the number of times today I thought "just kill me", or even remotely joked about it. But am I?

The first time I became aware of death, was when I was no more than 10, attending some elderly relative's funeral. We had no relationship, I never knew she existed. Nevertheless, hot tears streamed down my face as we knelt in front of the casket, tears and perspiration pooling on my white tee shirt. I couldn't understand the grief that I felt, but the ache spread across my chest, and for those few moments I couldn't feel anything else. Like all the joy in the world had been sucked in. 

Since then, every funeral felt like any other. Memories of peanut shells, the lingering smell of lilies and chrysanthemum, tetra packs of sweet drinks and multi coloured packets of fruit chews littering the cheap plastic table cloths. Naturally, we still laughed and joked about life's trivialities, ignoring the elephant in the room. 

This week was so hard. I felt more than fragile, and I don't know what I have to do to make people take me seriously. Suffering always feels like unwanted competition. I fumble over words when I have to justify my feelings, to explain away why I am feeling upset about small triggers, and I lose focus in a snap. This swing from crippling self awareness and a brevity of complete numbness has me in perpetual autopilot – from driving home in peak traffic, even waking up and taking excessively long hot showers.

/

Earlier this year, over a dinner of sizzling korean hotplate chicken, I told my mother between the wafts of steam between us that I was unable to cope with life and needed to talk to someone, that I thought about dying ever so often, and she told me incredulously, "How can you say that, it's as if God is not in your life".

/

I suppress this memory where I was really upset with my father over inappropriate grey lines and again, there was no proper resolution, except a waving of hands and dismissing the problem with a "she's just emo". I thought about all the unresolved conversations that ended up in citations of bible verses or statements belittling the doubt cast, or downsizing my emotions so that other people could breathe.

/

In between rotating doors into memories I should just shelve away, my heart stopped to think of S and how much I just wanted to tell him these things and have him understand why I push people away the minute I feel that I have something to lose.

/

This year has been about picking up the pieces.
In a crazed state I found myself holding onto a razor, thinking about how easy it would be to just insert a bit more pressure and it would all stop. I wish I could blame my inapt ability to deal with these emotions on my parents, but I know deep down it's just a convenient excuse. Perhaps I'm just not as resilient as I thought I was, and finally the cracks are starting to show. The idea of death has always been about escape, and it's not that I don't feel God in my life, but I just wish he would help me end it all. I've become so desensitized to the finality of death that I romanticise it, carelessly toying with the idea ever so often. All to escape the unsurmountable amount of guilt because these feelings are so debilitating, because I struggle to reject the idea that faith and despondency are like oil and water.

There are days I wake up and everything hurts, when moving feels rubbing sandpaper on my skin, and my voice is shaky and I can't keep my face from being downcast.

"but God."

My flesh and my heart may fail,
but God is the strength of my heart
and my portion forever.
Psalm 73:26

I don't think I'll ever stop feeling this way, and maybe that's okay.
I believe in the man of sorrows, and I believe that he overcame the grave.
The storm in my heart subsides again.