Monday, April 22, 2013

Terminal.

 
Spoken word for the socially anxious, written on the 16th of April 2013.

From this day forth, I am going to accept my diagnosis. I am going to pretend that mental illness is like every other health condition; you have to listen to your doctors, take your medication, eat well, exercise right, but no matter how hard you try, at the end of the day:  it’s not up to you. I have a terminal disease; it’s called not wanting to live. And I am going to die whether it be by my own hand, or surrounding by my friends and family in a nursing home sixty years from now. At my rawest, I have written lists and made plans; documents to refuse medical intervention, thought about the type of food I want the toxicologist to write on my report, the clothing I want to be buried in, the music for my funeral and the thank-you’s to my beautiful friends who so deeply enrich my life. I don’t want to fight these feelings, because my desire to live or die is one of the only things within my control and is so highly personal, that it is almost impossible to discuss without further isolation from “reality”.
But I don’t want to die, I sincerely do not.
So from this day forth, I have decided to live as if I do indeed have a terminal condition. I am going to tell boys I want to kiss them when really they are the only exception to my desire for women. I’m going to fuck my bachelor of health science and continue to do English electives for my entire degree, because poetry is one of the only antivenins to this insidious disease which hurts everyone around me, myself especially. I am going to fly interstate to see Horrorshow live because that’s something I’d do if I was dying. Anything my gorgeous friend Lilla and her family would have done to enrich her quality of life during her brave fight against neuroblastoma, I am going to do also. Because when I look back at my life, years and years from now (even though it seems so incomprehensive at this moment in time), I want to remember this depressive episode as one where not only did I get out of bed, cook myself dinner and cry on public transport, I also held my head high and said: if this is how I feel; so be it. I am not a product of insanity, I am not weak or not good enough because I am somewhere in the continuum of functional and hospitalization. I choose to acknowledge the way I feel, and do something positive about it.
Stay tuned for the adventures of the girl who five out of seven days wished she was dead, but fucking made the most of the other two, x