That Shit Hurt: A series Pt. 3
Updated: Oct 20, 2021
The next part of the story is important because I see a lot of parallels between her and I, and Daniel and I. In the months leading up to Daniel's death, he had receded into the depths of his depression. He had been in pain for so long; long before even I had been lucky enough to enter the picture. I can only now fully understand the extent of his pain.
Only now do I understand. I say that because in the months leading up to his suicide, Daniel had made a series of decisions that would further complicate an already complicated situation.
This wasn't his intention. In fact, his next few moves would be made with complete
and devoted love. The type of selflessness that inflicts the saviour with poison in order to save the damsel in distress.
He would push me away, rather brutally. But I stood there. Blow after painful blow. If Daniel was considered stubborn, then I must've been "Lucifer To His Core Believing Another World Was Possible" level stubborn. I was not about to let him slip away from my fingers. I knew exactly what he was trying to do. He was trying to make me think he didn't love me anymore. He was trying to make me think he lost feelings. He was trying to make me think this was about me and not about him wanting to kill himself.
I knew what he was trying to do, so I stood there and let him chip away at my heart. Emotional stab after emotional stab.... until I slowly started to believe him. Maybe I was boring. Maybe all I did do was make him feel guilty. Maybe he did in fact fall out of love with me. And so, I slowly got pushed into the outskirts of his life.
After what felt like a lifetime later, he shyly tried to return. He gently re-transformed into the pure hearted, sparkling, fucking adorable soul I had always known him to be.
But I was confused.
"Don't you hate me?"
How could I all of a sudden re-become this magnificent being in your eyes? Aren't I boring? Isn't the only thing I know how to do right: making you feel guilty? I kept picking at my emotional stab wounds that never healed.
He was trying to make amends. He was trying to move on and forward. He was trying to come back to me.
"But he hurt me," my past self would say. I want to fucking punch her in the face.
Only now do I understand that his pain was immeasurable to mine. He was in agony. He was suffocating. And he didn't have to undergo an inconsolable loss to onset the pain. It had always been there, just underneath the surface; lurking and threatening to take over.
"But he looks like he's having fun with his friends. He's going to concerts and posting pictures of his dog," my past self would say. I want to shake her to death.
Get this fucking picture out of your head that suicidal people sit in a corner crying all day. They are the happy stranger giving you directions. They are the Sales Associate that didn't act robotic and made your day. They are your fucking best friend. I cannot stress enough that literally anyone and everyone can be fucking depressed, no matter how it appears. I can still go out with my friends and smoke weed and sing at concerts and still want to fucking kill myself.
Excuse my yelling. It's just as much for you as it is meant for my past self.
So that's it folks. That's the pyramid sized chip I carry on my shoulder.
I knew what he was trying to do, and yet I still managed to let myself get tricked.
And so, I pushed her away in exactly the same fashion.
To be continued....
Always with love,