I am dying

 I am dying. As are we all. From the moment of conception we, each of us, climb thru life only to begin a descent toward the inevitable. Death. For the last 66 years I have never before experienced the feeling of dying and, at first, I was terrified. Now, I’ve accepted the conclusion of my own demise and am only afraid of how those who love me will. I do not have any disease which can be identified as a physical illness however. No, it is a mental one, or so I’ve been told.

Depression: a feeling of such immense sorrow as to cause physical pain. An emotional turmoil of such frustration; to be completely able to rationalize the reason and yet be completely unable to resist the sense of utter failure. Such has been my downfall. But it is only now that I feel so lost, so empty.

I have considered that if only my soul were something as tangible as my heart that I could say it is being attacked. Alas, ever since the first time I truly believed I was having a heart attack I was told, “You’re only suffering from anxiety.” Only? Then the knife in my chest is only an illusion. I wondered if it might be a type of cancer then. Perhaps my liver, or my colon is infected. Maybe my lungs, as I find it difficult to breathe.

No, just a condition far too often ignored and, when perceived by doctors, too difficult to describe, let alone treat. “There are medicines you can take which will make you feel better,” I hear them say. Maybe, but the timing is already too late. And then, once I have made it abundantly clear that I am indeed suffering, they ask “Are you thinking about hurting yourself? Or others?” When I call a doctor I hear “If this is a medical emergency please hang up and dial 911.”

Is my life an emergency? I don’t know. I would like to think so, but then nothing is an emergency. Nothing needs to be now. I am not willing to inflict any more pain upon myself as the weight of feeling nothing is pain enough. Joy, happiness, hate, anger…, love, are no longer words I can truly say I feel. Sorrow? Yes, but only for those whom I do not wish to see me suffer.

Yes I am dying. A long, slow, insufferable decline into a darkness which drains my willingness to resist. I want to keep saying I’m sorry to have them see me this way. But I’ve no where else to go, no where I can be where it will change how I am. How long will it take before I take one last breath? I am wanting to just stop breathing, but I am not strong enough to end my life.

I need not worry though, for my life seems to be ending of its own accord. My smile, my laughter, my exterior display that all is right with the world is ever more difficult to maintain. After all these years of finding a new bottom, a place so deep that I thought I could never breach, there was always a shadow. There was, then, always a light beyond. For shadows can’t exist without it.

Now the dark is complete. Light cannot find me here. I’ve realized my mortality and have found it wanting. I don’t want to die, but living, it seems, is not an option. So I wait. For the first time believing this will be the last time. But why do I write this?

Who can I show this to who will not cry? A doctor most likely, but what then? Will I be placed in a hospital for the insane and medicated beyond awareness so as not to harm myself? No, I’ve been twice before and felt I did not belong. There is suffering and there is radical behavior. Fearing death is not radical, nor is accepting it. Fearing the feel of lost control is my dilemma. Do these words reveal my deceit?

Again, I have no answer to my question. So I have sought answers from others who claim they suffer as I. I hear them talk about abuse, whether by others or by drugs, and wonder why I have no such background. Was I abused as a child and so suppressed the memory? How can I know? Were drugs a problem? I have smoked a substance, but have been willing and able to stop.

It is because I am on a medication which is scary enough to prohibit taking anything else. I’ve never been much of a drinker. It only took far too many times of being drunk to understand that is not an experience I want to go through again. As for the smoking…, well maybe it can be called an addiction which is why I don’t ask for medical permission.

Any attempt to consider living longer than I am able to is foolish. The time and place will not be of my choosing despite wanting to choose how and when. Watching those not necessarily older but more feeble than I raises doubt in my heart. How soon before I, too, become immobilized with a truly physical trauma? Will then be an acceptable time to concede life?

Surviving is not enough and all I know how to do. Take another breath and another. Wake again another day and survive the pain in my chest. It will pass? If I can’t believe then no it will not. Others believe and for them I continue. For how long will be known only until I am not alive to say “See?” But saying “I told you so,” is a vain attempt to validate my suffering.

Perhaps, some time from now, there will be a more real threat to my life. More justified somehow. Now is not the time to plan for a future. It is merely depression and I am dying.