I know this siren voice within that calls, demands and begs for my end. I know the reasons it gives, the oratories it delivers to me to goad me to the noose. And I can say for certain a great part of the rhetoric comes from a place of deep isolation, a knowledge that better is possible somehow, but that in every way imaginable, it feels beyond my reach. It speaks of the time I lost in isolation and even still continue to lose. That this wasted time is too great to recover from, that I have missed the time in my life that I could have "lived." Truly lived, enjoyed my life. Perhaps that itself is a target which does not exist, this concept of "having lived" that haunts me, that I was denied, or that I denied myself. Too late it screams at me, to have experienced it, I watched those I grew up with experience it before they even turned 20. The voice's oration continues, stating that I have not the time now to experience it, for to properly do so requires years upon years of foundational "social knowledge" that I have ever acquired.
Perhaps Siren is correct, it really is a siren in my head. It's song not one of beautiful harmony that entices sailors to their demise, but rather one of depression, isolation and misery that places the image of my lifeless body hanging from a noose in front of me and sings a plain song arguing that this image is ultimate freedom. That the image is liberty, freedom from mortality, its struggles and its woes. I find myself often agreeing. Even the most deluded and irrational voice will be listened to once its song is sang loud enough, and for long enough. And this siren has had a long decade to preach its ideology of comforting oblivion.
Can I really name it deluded or irrational when I have so eagerly and fervently allowed myself to be swallowed by its ideology of doom? I allowed myself to stagnate and do naught but rot. And each time my mind demanded an explanation, a reason for this slothfulness, I answered with only "Oblivion shall take me soon, there is no cause for betterment." I am not wholly a victim of the siren, but a willing collaborator in its destruction of the self.
The path to healing from this is the acceptance of what has been lost: Years, years I might've spent being happy. But to accept that is painful beyond compare. To accept that the last near-decade of life has been almost for naught and that I must restart from the beginning. To accept that it will be a long journey to heal from this. I am not aware of myself enough to answer if I will even be able to commit to it, and see that I do travel the road to recovery. I know, however, that due to my state, it will have to be a road travelled alone. For being told that I am supported hardly matters when what I long for most is not to know you want me to succeed, but that I can count on you to pick me up when I wish to sob by the side of the road, that you'll let me bury my head in your chest and weep. That, just for once, you'll tell me I matter. I know no one I can count on in such a way, and I probably never will.
To fully heal, I must also force myself to combat that ugly siren, to silence its dance and finally remove the Sword Of Damocles that hangs over my head, which the siren promises me is freedom. Its promise of escape, its reason to not better the self, is a cancer. This which may sound like a whine from a spoiled child: I must give up the cause of slothfulness that decrees a close and inevitable end by my own hands. But it is difficult to force the thought "I will not kill myself" into my head when for so many years I've held the inexorable belief that it will inevitably happen. To give up that belief of oblivion also forces, in turn, the adoption of the belief that "I want to live," because I know that if I do not believe that, then I will use my lack of belief as justification to yet again compromise or undermine my life. The issue with this belief is, sadly, that I cannot find it to be true.