I’m called, now, a survivor of suicide.
I’m not really sure how that sits with me… I’m not the survivor, if you know what I mean. I’m not the one who tried to die. If Tony had lived, he would be a suicide survivor.
But he didn’t. And no one wins here.
Although I am surviving, no doubt about that.
So.. I don’t know.
Anyway, they say that survivors of suicide-like me- one thing we report, one thing we have in common, is a feeling of constant exhaustion.
Part of it, it’s just wanting to sleep. Because sleep is so black, so dark and warm; and it’s a place where you get twisted up in dreams and memories, and the lines between what was and what is can blur.
But it’s not all about sleep. Part of it is just over exposure, your mind running itself on the same circuits over and over until it begins to burn, that sulphury, hot melting smell.
Because, you see, most things- everything- it reminds you of the person who has passed. And as soon as that memory hits, it starts the circuit….
And every unanswered ‘Why?’ falls on your soul, over and over like a heartbeat. Your mind stretches and turns- every word they ever said, every thing you did in those last few weeks. And all you come up with is more questions, more “why?”s, all of them without an answer.
It’s exhausting. Thinking so hard, all the time, without any satisfaction.
It’s no wonder I am so damn tired.