Author: andromeda311 PM
There's a fine line between optimism and self harm.Rated: Fiction M - English - Angst - Words: 734 - Reviews: 2 - Favs: 1 - Published: 12-15-10 - Status: Complete - id: 2873456
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"thus repuls'd, our final hope is flat despair." -milton, paradise lost
You're alone, nothing but your medication to appease you. Once upon a time, you might have scorned this, might have chosen the harder path, the stronger path, the cleaner path -- but now you don't care. Make it numb, make it silent, make it stop.
You'd give anything for a little peace of mind, but no one's selling.
Suck it up. Deal with it. Move on.
Take another pill, drink another tonic, write another poem. You'll do it again tomorrow, just like today, just like yesterday, just like all the indistinguishable days you've passed in this exact same way. Time stops mattering so much, a haze of medications and repetitions and unrelenting, unbearable, uncontrollable boredom. You've done it a hundred times before, you'll do it a hundred times again. You could care, but then you have to face the fact that you're a modern-day Sisyphus and you'll never, ever be done with this. Better to drug yourself into silence.
It hurts less, and you've hit the point where your choice is reduced to hurting less or hurting more, and you're all out of strength. No more hard way, no more pushing through on your own abilities. No more pride.
It's all right, though. You've accepted that, due to sheer necessity. If you didn't accept this as your fate, you'd have ended it by now -- there's only so much disappointment you can take, especially when it's yourself that's so disappointing. No, no, better this way.
Maybe someone would listen, if you cared to speak. Maybe this hypothetical person would have the answers to your problems in a little bag he carries at his side. Maybe he'd pull it out and hand it to you, and maybe a choir of angels would descend from the heavens and sing for the joy of life being answered and absolved for one half-crazed person.
Or maybe you're sick of hope.
That's the big, nasty secret: there's a fine line between optimism and self-harm. There's a point where "the best" is not an option, and hoping for it is self-delusion. There's a point where being positive becomes negativity. Is it deliberate? The way you get your hopes up? Do you realize, when you're happy, that this will fall apart and leave you a little less in its wake? Maybe. Maybe that is your self-destruction. They call you strong, but they don't see that hope is something you indulge in, like heroin or opium or morphine, a narcotic that will make it all disappear for a while -- and then you'll come down, the junkie fallout, the hopeless despair and -- and that's the clean part, that's the place where the drug fades into the aether like the atmosphere into space; that's your "normal," it's the hopeful part that's the problem.
You've learned the bitter lesson, and that's that sometimes despair is survival. Losing hope has allowed you to let go, allowed you to stop caring so much, allowed the pain to fall away and become little more than white noise on the edge of consciousness. Nothing more than static, this thing that used to keep you up all night, tossing and turning and calculating and thinking and planning and dreaming and hoping. You sleep like a baby now, drugged into semi-consciousness, mind blessedly silent, dreams smothered under an ever-increasing weight of medication and futility and loneliness.
It's all right, though.
You don't care.