Fiction: Conning Happiness

Conning Happiness.png

Conning Happiness

I felt like killing myself today. I feel like killing myself pretty often when certain things happen. The easier thing would be to remove those things from my life. To just become divorced from them. But I’m afraid, you see. Because those things – they can sometimes be good. Sometimes.

I talk about self love pretty often because I know exactly what the consequences are of not feeling it. I know what it’s like to look into a mirror and find flaws only more than half the time. I know what it’s like to see yourself and default to a feeling of disgust. I know what it feels like to hate your own body and feel like you’re destined for Hell.

I know what it’s like to be afraid to talk to Allah because you’re so filthy you don’t deserve to. I know what it’s like to be so afraid that you’re going to be in the Fire but yet so tired that you don’t know where to start in clawing your way back up. I know what it feels like to suffocate on tears and screams because you don’t know what else to do and, if nothing else, at least you can get rid of your misery that way.

Except you can’t. Because you’re ashamed. Because you had such promise only a little while ago. And isn’t it so funny how a little while can feel like forever and a day when you’re on the dark side of it?

I know what it feels like to reduce yourself to the skills you’re good at. I know what it feels like to have no space you can truly let go in. I know what it feels like to have well meaning people reach out but never truly understand that they’re making things worse by trying to force you into what you’re not ready or healthy for.

I know what it feels like to be so frustrated with everything that you want to hit the reset button on it all, that you ponder just how bad ending it all could be. I know what it feels like to think that nothing can be worse than this, that you’re already a sinner so what does it matter if you just seal the deal already? I know what it feels like to feel pointless.

I know what it feels like to be an imposter. To preach but struggle to practice, to gain ground but then slide back to the start over and over and over and over again. I know what it feels like to live a life filled with pain and misery that you paper over and pretend doesn’t exist.

I know what it’s like to have talked about pain and suffering and love and happiness when you were in a good spot and now think that you had no right to talk. I know what it feels like to feel that you’ve failed harder than any of the people you’ve ever tried to help and think you have no right to speak.

I know what it’s like to feel unloved and unworthy. I know what it’s like to fantasize about killing yourself. I know what it’s like to be at the mercy of your emotions and feel so lost you just want to run and run and run until no one could ever find you and you can start again.

I know what it’s like to feel caged. I know what it’s like to want it all to end.

I know what it’s like, even now. I have a hell of a lot to be grateful for but I still sometimes want to jump. I still think over and over again about that final rest, though I know – for me, at least, there will be no rest. Sinners who don’t get better don’t get rest.

I know what your mind betraying you is like. I know what hating everything and anything is like. I know what losing hope is like. That’s why I write. I want everyone else to know they’re not alone. I feel unworthy. I feel ugly. I feel miserable. I want to jump.

But I don’t want you to.

END

We don’t talk about suicide enough. It exists. These thoughts exist. People feeling like this exists. And when we ignore these realities, people feel ashamed of their urges and feelings. That’s when they become overwhelming and people give in.
 
Talk about it. It helps. It loosens the power held by those feelings.

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