Lift me up, I Can’t Walk any Longer
Can you remember when all the professors and poets came together to discuss the questions of life and death in the great hall of the club? Can you remember when I wanted to raise a question, but they ignored me as they had done throughout my whole life? If anybody had encouraged me, I would have asked them with my trembling heart to tell me one reason, one sole reason why I should not kill myself.
I can see you raising your eyebrows, and I want to promise you I won’t fall apart when there is thunder, and lightning striking mercilessly through my heart. I want to promise you I will survive every storm, tsunami, hurricane and earthquake, but I just don’t trust myself when there is no light, and I can’t see what I am doing in the dark. At that time stars are collapsing back into themselves, leaving nothing behind but black holes. Believe me, I am trying to reconstruct the mechanism of the universe every single day, I am really trying.
Look, I am feeding my brain with purpose-crumbs to carry on a little bit more. I am telling myself I need to get my teeth fixed – I can’t just spend a fortune at the dentist to die after that.
I am arguing with myself what if I had life-threatening disease? Sure, I would fight to be cured at any price, proving that my survival instinct is still active and intense. However, after that, isn’t it ridiculous? I would end my life, since my body has been healed but my mind remains tormented. ‘What a waste of stress, good wishes and hospital bed’, you may say. Oh, no, my stubbornness is telling you, my death has to be a decision, not a fate, in order to make a statement.
‘You are just giving up’, you may say, but do you know how many times I have had to lift myself up from the floor which I sank onto, feeling left behind? Do you know how many times I remembered my small child-self weeping on the streets, raising my arms and making faces just to make my grandfather lift me up, when I could not walk any longer? He was fragile, he was also tall, he bent down for me, and let me climb up onto his back. I stopped crying, he held me, I held him to stay on that elevated level until I was strong enough to walk again. And when he was not able to carry me, as sometimes he lacked vigor himself, I started to shout again and again and again. I grabbed his knees, making him stop, begged him with theatrical tears. And he used his last strength to lift me up once more, even if for the last time.
I had a tantrum, I was demanding, I was aggressive. Oh, my brain was healthy back then. I wish I had the same aggressiveness to be able to perform the same tantrum to want to live again. But it is hard to grab someone’s knees when I don’t have the power to lift my hands up, and I don’t care enough to use the voice in my throat to scream for help.
Maybe I could just sit on the floor, sinking again, watching you passing by. Maybe I can just ask you to look at me occasionally. May I ask you to give me a hand? My body is too heavy. May I ask you not to force me to smile when I am burning on the inside? May I ask you not to comfort me by promising “Everything will be fine”? Just listen to me and say “The world is fucked up, I hear you.” Could you remind me of my worth but in such a way that I believe you, I would appreciate that so much. Could you please…
Oh, how could you. Who am I kidding with this fake letter?
You were in the hall with the professors and poets, and you did not notice me, either. You saw my face, but you were not interested in my soul. You did not ask “How you are doing?” I could have said “I have been better”, that would have been a clue for you. If you had been genuinely interested. But no, you smiled when I smiled, laughed when I laughed. You made sure I was the cheerful and funny person you had always liked.
And I delivered, because I wanted the love.
Still, I wish I had asked that question in the hall that night. Now I have to read all the books and papers myself, I have to listen to all of the music, see the paintings and sculptures on my own to find the meaning behind, to find my saving answer. But I get this, because I am a searcher, I am a fighter, I am a peacemaker, and so I can’t be at war with myself. Yes, I will get the answer, and I will tell you when I find it. I have the potential, I can feel it.
But I need to hurry, for the pain is becoming insufferable these days, you know. For I am never sure if there is tomorrow.
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Mad in the UK hosts blogs by a diverse group of writers. The opinions expressed are the writers’ own.