After this, Job opened his mouth and cursed the day of his birth. He said: "May the day of my birth perish, and the night that said, 'A boy is conceived!'
"But in the end one needs more courage to live than to kill himself."
It's been awhile since I've had one of those never-ending dreams about my former. I've described them before as her always with a group of her supporters and they are always mocking and laughing at me - plotting to set me up for even more heartbreak to rub salt in the wounds. For about two years straight, that was something that I just learned to expect when my head hit the pillow. This past year they occur less frequently but I had one last night. It must have been triggered by a program I was watching that included a segment of individuals reuniting with loved ones - wives, children, parents, friends.
I first woke at 3am, soaking wet with sweat and crying. After staring into the grey for a half hour and drinking a glass of water, I drifted back off...AND PICKED THE DREAM UP RIGHT WHERE IT LEFT OFF! So exhausting. The theme is quite predictable. The only thing that changes is the location. In these dreams she convinces me that things might get better and leads me on for a few days. She always wavers by telling me that her mind has changed and then changed again. I keep getting let down over and over. When she has finally decided that we will work it out, I am led to some location where it is revealed that she is in deep with another man and pursuing two or three others. The crowd is there and is delighted to see my heart break all over again. So, up again at 5am and refusing to go back to sleep.
That brings back the feelings I had for so long of having a sincere desire to no longer live. I have wanted to die so badly - to cease to exist. It is something I push out of my head every day still. I occupy myself with things that are supposed to bring me joy (listening to records, making art, taking walks, exploring new places, attempting to think about others rather than myself) and the knowledge that I wasn't hers and never was still lurks in the back of my head. If it isn't surfacing in dreams, it's triggered by location, smells, seasons, objects, and images.
One friend, in an attempt to discourage me from perpetuating my sorrow by reliving it every day, sent me an excerpt out of T.S. Eliot's "Four Quartets":
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future,
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable.
What might have been is an abstraction
Remaining a perpetual possibility
Only in a world of speculation.
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.
Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.
Why do I disturb the dust? I guess because I know it's there.
Philosopher Emil Cioran said, "A book is a suicide postponed." And, I think that is what this blog is for me.
Today's offering: Anne Sexton, "Wanting to Die"