It makes me sad when things end, in real life and fiction. The ultimate end being death, I mourn for characters in books as I mourn in real life. I’m not sure whether that is a trait of my condition or not.
I finish a book, a life ends, a movie trilogy airs the final part of the story, relationships cease and all leave a mark on me. I relate so much to the stories in books and film that they plant a seed in my mind that uproots all other memories exposing them, projecting them high in the sky with all associated feelings laid out like stars in the darkness. I feel only pain and self pity and wanting only for peace I lock myself away.
Losing friends and relationships dug up from where I buried them deep to forget them, suddenly, like a headache they interfere with my day to day activities and I find everything sad, I cry all over again, the same pain I cried out for in that first instance, and it’s all because of one ending.
An ending so final, one with death or one without any hope of happiness, but also the ones that do end happily, with sunlight and life and a future. These things I never imagined for myself during my suicidal youth. I never saw hope. These stories invoke a powerful envy, something that I desired more than anything, which I buried first just before my life fell apart, covered in concrete, cast in iron, never to return, somehow manages to surface, it’s glow filling my life with the wanting of a perfectly happy ending that I only imagined as a child before people and the miseries of this world tainted my pure mind.
That was all before the deaths, the assaults, the failed relationships, the opportunities lost, the medical conditions, the medications, the stress, the depression, the suicide attempts, back to my pure state I saw only love. My parents loved me, I loved them and the sunshine and the world around me. I saw one day loving someone, having children of my own, and them having children. A simple life of hope that chipped piece after piece of me away until this ugly chunk of rubble remains, glowing with envy of a fictional fairy tale of everything somehow working itself out in the end. That somehow, something will build me back up to remake something that resembles what I once was. Then everybody sits in the sunlight smiling at each other across a field of wildflowers, at peace in the knowledge that the worst things that can happen are over.
My hope needs more tears for it to grow, more endings have to push me to my limit before I can fight for my life inside my own mind. I’m holding my own battle and that too must end someday, and I don’t know how I’ll manage to survive that one if a good bye in the final chapter of a book rips me to pieces with the thought, empathy or memory. I come back to the conclusion that I always did when I was young, this illness will defeat me and take full control or kill me, either way I won’t win.