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He told me that he is burning alive, not literally, but inside. Said that he feels palpitations every time he thinks he might go back; like his heart is a jarful of moths, beating against glass. I told him we are all breakable, but that he is going to make it through. He asks me if monks can really spontaneously combust. I reply, no, but they light themselves on fire. It’s a way of protest. He says oh. He then says, I want to protest against Adderall, Cymbalta, and Marijuana: he still can’t focus, still can’t be happy, and being high is a minor fix. I don’t know what to say. We sit silent for a while. I ask him what depression is like. He laughs and says, it’s like a really drawn out stubbed toe, only it’s in your head and no matter how much you curse you think the pain will only get worse. It always does too. I just want to die. The next day he scorched himself. Someone called 911 and reported a man walking out of a pawn shop with a jar full of something dead and then poured gasoline over his head and lit a lighter. I cried. I wondered if there were wings still fluttering when he burst into ash. He could have at least saved what little flight he had left, what little life, for me.
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Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 10:09 PM UTC
What Depression Means
He told me that he is burning alive, not literally, but inside. Said that he feels palpitations every time he thinks he might go back; like his heart is a jarful of moths, beating against glass. I told him we are all breakable, but that he is going to make it through. He asks me if monks can really spontaneously combust. I reply, no, but they light themselves on fire. It’s a way of protest. He says oh. He then says, I want to protest against Adderall, Cymbalta, and Marijuana: he still can’t focus, still can’t be happy, and being high is a minor fix. I don’t know what to say. We sit silent for a while. I ask him what depression is like. He laughs and says, it’s like a really drawn out stubbed toe, only it’s in your head and no matter how much you curse you think the pain will only get worse. It always does too. I just want to die. The next day he scorched himself. Someone called 911 and reported a man walking out of a pawn shop with a jar full of something dead and then poured gasoline over his head and lit a lighter. I cried. I wondered if there were wings still fluttering when he burst into ash. He could have at least saved what little flight he had left, what little life, for me.
#suicide#depression#heart#heartache#glass#selfishness#jar#breakable#moths
samuel-fox
Written by
samuel-fox
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 10:09 PM UTC
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