Hate in the hidden places

One of the things that brings me down the most, is that however much you have to fight to stay alive, to find something to hang onto in order to prevent yourself from committing suicide and take that seemingly easy-looking way out, a short road with an absolutely final stop, far away from all the things that plague you, if you look at the responses of other people, or rather the lack of them, it becomes clear that all of that effort, all of that pain, stays very much hidden in the shadows. And the questions pile up.
How can it be that this deep a well of misery is not glimpsed, why can I not be saved, why do I not gain your pity, your compassion and your love? I want to, I'm looking for response, I'm here again, after all. But the air remains silent, as there are no words to reverberate the needed comfort.
And I know this is all my fault.

It is because ultimately, you can not just share. The average person does not understand this state of mind. We are all susceptible to loss and pain, and grief is a natural element of human life. But it's a different thing entirely when your mind turns against you, when it sends you and it tumbling headlong into a state that is so inimical to itself. A state that chews at all these things, the very fabric of you, something so helplessly dangerous that lashes out at everything and looks at this self-loving image you've so laboriously constructed for yourself and shreds it into a host of ugly self-hating truths.

You don't share, you don't reach out, because people can not really comprehend. They will mock or laugh, shrug it off or worst of all; they will offer their well-meaning but oh so very god damn inadequate help. So, you shut up, and you lock up the screams behind gritted teeth and make them believe you'll just get through it on your own. You are distant, immovable and cold. And playing into their conceptions of you, you pretend to get through it on your own.
And then you do.
And, over the years, you do it again and again. But they don't know how heavy this is, the horrible  draining weight of it, or how often the glass cuts and how much the open window beckons.

But then the other side of that well-rubbed coin reveals itself. The age-old reproach to those who opt out: How can you do that to those you leave behind?
To those who mop up the stains, pack up your things and sign all the documents. What of the damage and the pain to their minds that your horrific passing brings?

It is a reproach that fills me with a loud and rabid hatred.

As if this is not a pain I feel every time. Every day I contemplate suicide is a day I make myself feel these things, where, willing or not, these visions present themselves to me in a rotten yarn of self-punishing thought. There is so much hate and despair making up the twine of all these disparate cords, five for each of you, and more besides for some, all these things tied into the various scenarios as horrific as my imagination can conjure them. And the tangle of my imagination runs despairingly wide.

And there is no help, and there is no help, and there is no help and I am left with only hate.

There is no help and I hate you all.

-----

Reach out, share and get help, is that not always the thing that is prescribed for those suffering from depression?

Get help?

Go fuck yourself. I'm going to have a drink and finally play some Assassin's Creed Origins.

And no, despite opening with a plea for compassion, you can keep that hairy hug of love and choke on it. I don't want it.

...

In other news, I've been busy with another in-depth Fantasy Masterwork review, this time for the Song of Kali by Dan Simmons.

It's been fun and fascinating, reading up on the various influences and backgrounds to the novel trying to construct an in-depth, readable compendium of information on the novel, but in the idle moments of the day I get dragged down just a little bit more until at the end of the day I always end up stuck in a very dark place.

In the morning there is still hope, and only occasionally one is plagued by shocks of anguish, but the more time passes, the more those moments last and become more forceful. Until, here now, where it has become a constant whimpering, whining barrage of self-defeating despair.

I had a drink and am now just waiting for this fucker to finish installing, is why I am here and I'm still typing.

What type of drink, you ask?

Well, normally I'm a rum man but for some reason I bought something sweet this week.

...

...

...

Fuck, yes, finally.

Laters.

And no. No, shut up and leave me be. Comments will be deleted.

 Though the read is very much appreciated.

Edit: To share the pain one feels is to inflict that pain on others, even if it is just a fraction of the depths that it plummets. Another reason to hug it close is what I'm saying. Others might say they're open to hearing, to helping, but those are just words. Pain is pain, nobody really wants it.
And maybe some people don't want to be helped.