The misery feels like it's entrenched in your bones, there's no way to escape it. And it drives so deep that you can't think beyond it, can't move, can't feel anything but the misery. It feels like eternity. It feels like it's the only thing in the world. You're entirely alone. And you will never be able to escape it. It will be with you forever.
Even if someone tried to help, they wouldn't be able to do anything. Because the pain and the sadness has overtaken you. There's nothing left of you any more. You are a shell. You exist only as a house for the grief, and sadness, and the misery that seems to seep from you. And the minute the pain lessens enough for you to be able to move, you will end it forever.
You're still not quite sure whether or not you believe in God. There was a time when you thought you did. But now you're not sure whether that was even real. Your mother used alcohol to escape. You had belief. Both were coping mechanisms. As long as you believed that after death you would be saved, then maybe life didn't matter so much.
But now there is no way left to escape, and nowhere to turn to. No solace to be found.
You are not sure what has made this day so much worse than the others. When you're mother died, your first method of escape, faith, died with her. You lost your belief. But she's been gone for years now.
That was when you turned to your second method of escape. Medicine. For a while, you buried yourself in it, and it worked. Whilst your own life may already be a lost cause, at least through the medium of medicine you could give others a chance.
Work served as a distraction, the abuse from your mentor gave you a lesser pain to focus on, and he unwittingly dulled the pain that is eating your soul. The all encompassing melancholy. It allowed you to preserve the front for others to see.
You cannot remember being happy. Over recent years, you have felt desperation for someone to reach out and save you. Then came the terror. No one was there. Nothing could save you from the tortures of your own mind. The memories, the hurt, would never fade. Then, there was the numbness, after your father died. The cause for at least a small part of your despair. Life hung by a thread. You did not care if you lived or died.
And now, now what do you feel? You stir your hand. The movement is coming back. The sadness you feel now, there is no word to describe it. Perhaps, you ponder because there can be no words to describe this all encompassing feeling. And yet, there is a sort of tragic beauty in its purity. You cannot ever recollect ever having felt anything so whole within itself, so pervasive that it has pushed all other feelings, all awareness, away, so that you are left nothing else.
And as you realise this, the urge rises within you, and you know that you cannot go on. There is nothing left for you, and you can't even bring yourself to care. Even at this, this momentous moment, at least for yourself, you cannot bring yourself to care.
Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;
Thou they worldy task hast done.
It is better that way. There will be no more pain, and you will cause no more pain. So the small step that will carry you forwards, for a moment giving you the feeling of flight that no man may ever feel and live, does not feel like a big step. It is just one small step. You are not even afraid of the pain. Everybody dies alone.
You step. You fall.
Text from Shakespeare's Cymbeline
