Would hate to be one of those writers (yes i am a self styled writer) who write abour dead-ends and death-gowns and dead-laughter. Yes. I dont want to be THAT person but these bulbs HAVE been blowing up in my head all summer.
There is just so much death around me. Its there wherever i look: cemeteries, tombstones, funerals, elegies, orchids. So much death and in it’s midst, me, who is so unsure of life.
Maybe. Pessimism has taken root. Or maybe. I really do want to die.

I want to stop myself here.
I want to skip away to my Happy-Place. Chew on an orange lolly on a golden stick and write about berry twirl, my favourite little creamy puffy delight.

But My Happy-Place Is Dead.

My Happy-Place (up on the bristly roof of the tiny-tree-house on the lightening-struck-tree) hit the ground and exploded into tiny un-glue-able fragments of cheap plywood.

Baba cut down the tree.

me: Do we have to?
baba: Its going to fall down anyway. It's Thunder-Struck.

I wonder why Thunder had to Strike my darling tree. With all the wide spaces and bushes and houses and antennas and other thunder-loving-things all around. The Thunder-Struck me.

And so.
We read the final rites on The Oak.
And so.
The tree and the tree-house (and me) were turned, with the quick-crisp hissing of the chain saw, into, silent splinters.

A little bit of the trunk still juts out from the ground and seems to be waiting. For someone to sit on it and declare it home. No grass grows there and so i stay away.

With no where else to go, i go into the NO-Go zone: the inside of my head.
The worst part of THAt is NOT having any control over what I think.
The thoughts that arise are like vermin from the part of my mind that’s burnt out. Dangerous, with loose cables and live wires sticking out from the walls of my brain like antennae.
There’s…rubble…flooding…wiry chaos everywhere. Only a fool would have tried to go in there! And me? I live there. I live there. And I want out.
I have had enough. I hate the smell. I want to get out of here.

And I almost did. Once.
On the bridge.
Leaning against the railing, reading The Bell Jar.
Imagine: a head full of Sylvia Plath’s poetry, like the clearings in chaos. Suddenly the world clears up like the day after heavy rain. Like the swipe of the fingers across a foggy window.
Thats what Plath does. She clears "things" up. She makes them chew-able and do-able.
Even the impossible. Even suicide.
"I saw the days of the year stretching ahead like a series of bright, white boxes, and separating one box from another was sleep, like a black shade," I read out loud. " Only for me, the long perspective of shades that set off one box from the next day had suddenly snapped up, and I could see day after day after day glaring ahead of me like a white, broad, infinitely desolate avenue. " (chapter 13 - the bell jar)

With these words playing kiss-chase in my head, for a few minutes, I didn’t feel like I was losing my mind, like I was crazy, like I was dying.
The river splashed below, blue-black and filthy and suddenly things began to play in slow motion: a blur of colors, derailment: slow and painful. There was a sudden whoosh in my head. A dam bursting. A giddy, hysterical flush of impulsiveness.
And Then.
An overwhelming hunger to throw myself off that bridge.
Down into the water’s depth.

There was just a split second division in my heart; I wanted to jump, I didn’t want to jump. The pull was so violent, so savage, as if suicide had reached into my stomach and was dragging me by the entrails towards death. My legs readied themselves for the leap- it all happened so fast…ii remember it..it was ten seconds perhaps…but each second stretched on for a lifetime…

I stood still with my eyes closed as the depression rolled over me.
I remember being too tired to try and escape anymore.
And SO.
I stopped.

I just stood there and let EVERYTHING catch up with me. And when it did, it struck me like a tidal wave. There was this weight against the back of my head. Giant puppet hands slapping the back of my skull. I had nothing to defend myself with. I longed for something, anything to obliterate the pain in my head…to numb it…silence it…
No escape. Never anything.



Except this. This loveless ocean to drown in.

My blades.

*I don’t know anything anymore.
I think…I’ve gone missing.
That's just how I feel.
I don’t know how to put it another way.
I just can’t find myself.
I feel like I’m dying inside*

- posted by Mehreen Malik @ 4:41 PM