Over the last few days, a lack of creativity. Reading about disability benefit cuts with my mouth hanging partly open in that thoughtless, bovine way that I hate, a tear in one of my eyes (one of those tears that doesn’t come out and validate you as really and truly upset to viewers. I’m good at those) I’m forming the vague, grasping desire to write.
It starts with a pathetic mental sob in that delicate, crystalline tone I take on when I cry, so unlike my usual drone. I don’t want to die, it goes. I don’t want to die. Probably everyone on earth who became aware of death before they met it has thought such a thing, but for me it’s rather unique, because I usually don’t think about the fact that I’m going to die soon.
It’s there on my wall. “Five years”, the words split by a burning-down candle. Below them is a drawing of a bizzare, hunch-shouldered creature with bound hands and splayed feet being beaten with a truncheon, surrounded by debris. A syringe, a shattered “autism pride” button above the neck of a straitjacket. A pair of headphones, a pen and an Ipod, locked away. It’s my inevitable fate.
It’s taken on different facets throughout my life. When I was a child and I knew I wasn’t really learning anything in school or at home, it was the knowledge that I wouldn’t be able to have qualifications or a job. Slightly later than childhood, it was the inevitable swelling of my self-hatred to a sufficiently great volume that I would simply kill myself. Now, it’s a myriad of things that resolve into a story.
There’s the fact that my mother is getting old and wants me to live independently anyway. There’s that aforementioned lack of knowledge from school and such. There’s the simple fact that some days I can’t think or talk or bear the loudness of a pen stratching paper. Add the often unquestioned capitalist economy, and you get a story.
It’s the story of me freezing to death on the street when I’m so hypersensitive to cold sometimes that a puddle of tepid water hurts worse than a naked flame. Or perhaps it’s of a meltdown from the endless noise that I face without electricity to power my headphones, and a prison or mental asylum. It’s all mundane and boring, I’ve been over it so many times on those few occasions where I think about it. Regardless of details, it’s the story of me dying, and I have lived my entire life with the knowledge that it will happen soon.
Recently, oh so recently, sprung unthinkable hope that it might not be inevitable. I’ve no words, no writing style, to express how that feels. The slow, sliding hopelessness of a life where you’re just trying to gain some good memories that you can think of while you die in a few years. The way you feel over the possibility of actually living, actually doing something worthwhile instead of just living because it might all be gone tomorrow.
The closest metaphor I can make would be that of finding a configuration of genitalia that I don’t want to hack off when I reach into my knickers one day, and the dawning amazement of such an inexplicable, wonderful thing, but that would sound absurd to anyone but me (I suppose) so I leave it but mention it, because it deserves that much.
It deserves that much at least partly because it helps me remember what that hope was like before I read this. http://blobolobolob.blogspot.com/
At the time of posting, the top two entries there are what made me write this. Because my hope died a little, reader. Or perhaps it died a lot. It’s still there, at least a little bit, but it’s getting hard to understand why I have it.
I’m going to die, reader. I had what was at the time only a mildly unrealistic dream, and now I face reality in my teens.
I don’t want to die.
But I am going to die.
I am going to die screaming, and until I do, I’m going to try not to think about it. Because there’s nothing I can do to avert it. In some corner of my mind, I wonder if it’s learned helplessness. I wonder if it matters.
And I try not to think about it.