A Reflection

A trigger warning for suicide.

It is currently 5 PM. 1700 hours on a freezing Monday (I thought it was summer). I got out of bed at 9 AM this morning. My desk is a mess. I just had cake. It's been 20 days since I last thought about my thirteen reasons why.

I would celebrate. I am celebrating. Periods of fulfillment like these don't roll about very often, you see.

There are two states of me, two warring states that are constantly fluctuating and oh, it is Frustrating. When I find myself at peace, when the voices in my head aren't screaming my worthlessness over and over and over again, when something I create, or a task I successfully accomplished leaves me feeling fulfilled and joyous, those are the times when every dark episode and thrashing nights huddle away at the back of my memory vaults. I don't remember how being empty feels. I don't remember how being empty starts, or ends. Being empty is a state that exists, and when the stars align, I find myself once again being shoved head-first into a terrifyingly deep pit with nothing else but the echos of my own voice.

I've seen myself at the bottom of that pit, making plans around potentially ending it all. I've watch myself attempt the worst, only to stop at the very last second to ask myself, "Is this what I really want?". I've seen what remains of those times, the poems that litter my notes app, the stories I write down for when I finally decide to write a book, the little drawings I scribble on the sides of my worksheets. My work is a record of the thoughts that run astray in my mind. More often than not, they are sad, scared and horrifying.

I should be appreciating my joyful moments more. I should be taking advantage of the moment and pushing all my efforts into creating new pieces of work. The levels of focus and productivity I have experienced over the past 20 days is insane in comparison to the same me, just 365 days ago. But I can't. I can't without staring at myself in the mirror, completely unrecognisable with a smile that's just too bright, a voice that is just too chirpy and my enthusiasm levels off the roof. And maybe that's just it, my writing knows no way of existing without the trail of despondent depression that has etched itself upon my work. 'Empty' is a trademark of my creativity, and I'm not so sure if I am ready to accept that just yet.