This Is All Pointless
A lot of the times, I feel like there is no point to anything I’m doing. It doesn’t only include art and all the other side hustles that I have created for the project, but it’s about everything that my life is. Being here, breathing, existing, moving from one day to another. If it’s all filled with physical and mental pain, how am I supposed to have the urge to continue living?
Suicidal behavior comes in various shapes and sizes, and I have experienced pretty much the whole spectrum. Yearning and longing for death or lack of existence is often referred to as passive suicidal behavior, because it doesn’t involve active attempts or planning things ahead. It is a gnawing feeling in the pit of your stomach that makes you wish you hadn’t been born at all. Because what use is it to exist in a world you never wanted to be brought into if every day of that forced existence is filled with nothing but reminders of how much you have always been hurting?
When I’m in the depths of depression, you first start to notice it when you take a look at my apartment. Cleaning is something I have always hated and have never really found the point in, but when depression kicks in, it becomes nearly impossible for me to give at least one single fuck about it. When things get really really bad, something really strange happens: my brain stops perceiving and recognizing the mess around me. I look at my floors and my kitchenette, and I don’t even see the layers of dust and dirt all over. It’s like your brain refuses to acknowledge something so insignificant, because it’s constantly fighting against itself in order to keep you alive. Being suicidal and killing oneself is the antithesis of what it means to be a living organism in this world, so when you find yourself in that spot, nothing else matters than just making it through to another day – by force.
The emptiness is eating at me each and every day, and I lose the motivation to take care of my personal needs and the needs of the place I call home. Depression and the BPD emptiness render me unresponsive, unable to care about anything anymore. There is a massive gaping hole inside my heart that is never filled up, no matter how much love and care it is given, nothing is ever enough to fix it. That hole of emptiness is a reminder of what was taken away from me simply because my Friends didn’t like me all that much. It is the missing piece of my personhood, my identity, my existence in a world that never wanted me here in the first place.
“But you have to do the dishes. There is nothing you can even eat from anymore.”
But I don’t care about any of it anymore. Imagine taking a look at your cluttered kitchen with sinks filled with dirty dishes, and feeling like it is whispering to you that no matter how well you do the dishes, how diligent you are, you’re going to die either way. The sink is a reminder of your lack of will to continue living through another day, and no amount of pills is able to take it away from you.
Would you still care about the dishes in that moment?
I mean, I don’t even have an appetite to start with.
Looking for a reason,
ichigonya