No One Ever Truly Cares

Uncertainty

There is something really wrong with me. There has to be.

Who else envisions a death for themselves purely for the reaction of it.

It's why I'm sat on my bed, tears falling down my face at my thoughts. My mind keeps running, trying to think of how I ended up this way. But it comes up blank each time.

One argument. That's all it takes. All it ever takes. And then my mind spirals out, makes me imagine what death would be like, if it would be easier then just existing. My mind is always making normal situations ten times worse. I've always seen the worst in people and situations but lately it's like I can't control it. I can't seem to see the good anymore. There's suddenly no light at the end of the tunnel. And it always starts the same way. With one argument.

Just, one argument.

That's all it took for me to think about how my death would affect my family. I've always wondered if they'd miss me, if they'd be sad, or if they'd be secretly happy to no longer have to put up with me.

I'm not going to pretend that I'm a delight. I'm a pain in the arse, plain and simple, but I feel worthless quite a lot, and truly wonder if I have pushed people too far just by being myself.

That's why I'm sitting on the edge of my bed, wondering what it would be like to die. If all of my family just so happened to step into the hallway to use the toilet or go upstairs at the same time as the ceiling above me finally gave way. If all the cracks in the ceiling joined and there was a sudden snapping sound and I looked up to see the ceiling fall to my bedroom floor, as everything in the attic came down around me, before the weight became too much for my bedroom floor and I found myself falling down to the living room. It would happen so fast. My bed shifting under me making the mattress slip from beneath me, I'd fall backwards as something sharp comes through my bed frame and slices into my back, coming out of my chest. I'd cry out in agony and upon hearing all this my family would look into the room through the dining room doorway. They'd watch my body be impaled and my head slack to the side, facing them, as blood drips from my mouth. Death would slowly be creeping in on me just, so I can see their faces as I'm dying. So, I can see if I actually meant anything to them at all. So, I'd know if I'd be missed or loved.

So yeah, there is something really wrong with me.

Who else dreams of death?

Even though that's all it is, dreams and thoughts, its still always there, subconsciously on my mind: death.

They are mostly of me dying, but a few are suicidal dreams and thoughts.

But its something I'd never do.

Suicide.

If you decide to take your life and are successful, then its permanent.

Your dead.

There's no coming back from that.

And that's why suicide is something I could never do. Plain and simple, I'm scared of death.

The concept keeps me awake some nights.

And often after a death dream I can't get back to sleep. I just lie there in bed thinking. Thinking of anything to try and get it off my mind.

Otherwise I'm just lying there, not hearing anything, seeing nothing but darkness, then it's easy to imagine what it would be like to be dead.

Still.

Alone.

Dark.

And it creeps me out.

It suffocates me. Puts a pressure on my chest that makes it hard for me to breathe.

It sets off panic attacks.

The last one I had was when I was 21. The house was silent, I couldn't hear my mother snoring, or my sister watching TV, there were no sounds outside, and it was eerily silent in the house, peaceful. And then I was lying down, comfortable, I wondered what it would be like to be weightless, just floating. Then it happened. A small voice in my head. I was enjoying the peace and weightlessness with my eyes closed. And my mind whispered.

"It's like you're dead".

And that was all it took for the weight to suddenly return, all landing on my chest. I couldn't get up, I couldn't breathe, I was gasping for air, but nothing was coming. Tears where flowing easily down my face, my head started pounding, my lungs burning, and just when I thought I'd pass out Gemma appeared over me.

She looked annoyed. And shouted, "Mum! She's doing it again".

Then my mum was there, looking worried, telling me to breathe, small breaths. In and out. In and out. She kept repeating short breaths, knowing I choke everything time I suck in more air.

As I listened to her voice, taking short shallow breaths, the pain hurt less, the weight, lifted slowly, and then I was breathing.

I started sucking in deeper breaths then and lay back down feeling no more pressure on my body.

When my mum saw I was okay she left the room, stopping once at the door to make sure I was still okay, Gemma was long gone, probably left when our mother came. My panic attacks always make her uncomfortable, but I was thankful she called mum for help.

When my breathing returned to normal, and were soft and shallow, everything was peaceful again, still, and I couldn't lie there anymore. I'd just end up with a panic attack again. So, I got up, saw the time was 2:37am and knew I wouldn't be sleeping anymore that day.