A bad time

I have periods where I just completely self-destruct.
Where logic goes out the window and I do my unhinged best to just give up.
Self-harm in many flavours. This day it was rather beyond what I usually go through though.

Like Ventriss says: You don't suicide, you self destruct.
But this is of course wrong; you self-destruct, but only until you suicide.

The last 14 hours have been apalling.

And then suddenly it was over. For some reason, it wasn't all that bad anymore. You catch sight of something in the mirror and you flash a grin, and maybe it is self-conscious, maybe it is embarrassed. Because here we are again; staggering back from the mouth of Hell. The same type of mad careering dash, heedless of the consequence. You've teetered on the brink for an endless night again.

But you didn't claw back from that brink, oh no. Because you tempted it. You wanted it. There was no struggle to hold on. Because this is where it's going to end. Again and again, you know, you say; this, here, is where it ends. So why not now? Go on, do it. No hope; recognize it and stop. Endless words, endless self-punishing rhethoric, and the same age-old hurts cut open again and again. And in the awful silence, devoid of friendly words, the friendly face, the love so desperately needed, you rage, you coax, you beg, you cry. And it's just a breath away, so you don't stop, so you don't let up. It's out of control, this steady hate and sadness. This lonely, hateful sadness. You beg for it to end. Help me. Don't help me. Help me.

See me. Feel me. love me.

Save me.

Please.

And then: No. Silence and only the thud and throb of your private thoughts. Your hate. Your sadness. They're there and they're the only constant. And that's fine because this is where it stops, you can't bear any more, it's too much. Rage and shivering fear and such all-encompassing sadness, and you want the end.
The night goes on, and on, and on. And then all of a sudden that fire of self-hate, this thing that you thought boundless, this infinity of crazed self-maligning, is snuffed out.

It is as miraculous as it is awful.
This thing that was so real, so terrible, so all-consuming, is gone.

There is a grin on your face as you stare at your wracked complexion.
Because there is a secret delight. A secret pride.
See this? I'm still here. See what lies behind me? Do you see this monster on my back? I dare you to carry it a mile. And you won't make it. Because you are not me. You could not bear it. I am strong this way. You think this is new, you think this is impossible?
I have carried this all my life.

And I have contempt for your pity, and I rage at your love.
I don't need you.

Logically, rationally, you still don't hope. But you don't deny either: come what may.
It is human nature. We burn bright. We flash. No matter how hard these emotions might rage; they burn out, they ebb. But they'll come again. And then it'll be dark times again. Back at the mouth of Hell, gazing at its enticing glow.
And we might slip, we might fall. Maybe, we even jump. We might go over, see the bottom. Touch it, embrace it, kiss it. Be warmed by the fires, by oblivion, by come what may here too.

But not right now.
Cause fuck that shit.