People talk about missing the person they once were. About how if a particular situation didn’t occur, their life would be so much different.
I barely can comprehend such a notion.
As much as I can dream of a life I wish existed, it does not bode well to envision anything I could be other than who I am now.
I wouldn’t want to go back in time.
Moments maybe. But never to relive a year, a period, that was once what people term “happier” days.
I am a walking contradiction. In the fact that I am happy, and sad, and in anguish, in anger, in peace; in many many feelings at one given moment and 10 seconds later I have moved on to another emotion that at times overpower me with such frightful fear I constantly believe I might be psychotic, or even delusional.
On suicide, a friend was told me that she could never bear the thought of ever jumping off a building. The horror that remains with the people who witness the remains of your body.
A year later, they found her body broken at odd angles on the ground.
Which didn’t mean anything to what was left of her soul.
Another friend on suicide told me, don’t wake up regretting your choices.
But I guess all I can say is,
call me a safe bet, i’m betting i’m not