suicide – lonerloaner

I wrote you a love letter

My dearest,

Do you want to know what hiding anxiety and depression look like?

Try an erattic pulse, forgetting to breathe, anticipating the worst and soothing that only comes through the reassurance of intimate connection.

Try looking at the relentless gym goer, the man obsessed with providing the best life he can to his family, or even extend an eye of empathy to the war mongers who see no healing except through expressing how much they want to kill themselves, by curating outwardly creative, yet deceitful ways to justify killing others.

And on the topic of suicide, how do they hide, those suicidals?

We hide in prayer, in worship, in devotion to something larger than ourselves.

You may think strangely of the above, but if you allowed yourself deeper reflection, you’d realise, that we have to stop pathologising these things, and rather see them as symptoms of not extending every last fibre of our being to a cause.

Not expressing the immense tapestry of our abilities onto the world and releasing it in creative and artistic splendour.

It’s the soul taking you to account, the inner knowing, that voice that speaks to you and again is not a stigmatic label like schizophrenia nor a disorder of any fashion, it’s that buzzing, that noise that won’t go away, urging you into action.

Anxiety, depression, suicidal thoughts and a whole host of concocted psychological disorders are just by-products of unfulfilled potential incessantly knocking on your door. It’s the gnawing consciousness ear bashing you, soul crushing you, so that like cardamon, you release a fragrance.

Don’t be sold on these ideas that are hell bent on categorising you and lulling you into inaction and the comfort of a diagnoses (read: excuse). Rather, understand them as cues to spring into action because your soul knows you are capable of more.

So see all my efforts and exasperation as just answering the call, as a reluctance to procrastination, as a fulfilling of a Godly command, to realise our fullest potential in total and utter gratitude.

Wesam El dahabi

A moment with suicide

I’m overcome with the feeling of things being taken away from me.
This sofa I lie on, worthless, but still they’re coming for it. My children’s home, my things, worst of all, my pulses and heartbeats, one pump after the other, gone, never returning and soon, they’re coming for the rest.

It was my lowest day since my father passed.
Death stood hovering, lustfully whispering in my ear, the top of my eyes heavy as I pen this in hope it is merely passing.

Suicide has always been repulsed by me, and I by it. We could never agree, it wanting swiftness and I wanting a spectacle.

But yesterday something happened for a moment, a reconciliation if you will. Perhaps it was courage catching up to fear. Perhaps then a duel was about to take place, let me set the scene.

If anything, it will be in the desert, a fitting backdrop for solitude that they both abide by.

My fear has always walked alone, marred by hypocrisy and sin, let us amuse ourselves and reserve to it the idea that it is embarrassed.

My courage too, alone and aware of its extremities. I once wrote, ‘I have extremes so far fetched of so far fetched’, and now perhaps you will see why courage, like fear prefers to take the solemn footsteps away from the crowd.

But this backdrop of a desert couldn’t be more fitting. It will make legend out of this allegory of my moment.

I rose from writing, head still throbbing, eyes still feeling like they were pulled down for a lobotomy and I undressed to walk to the shower. Perhaps I could wash this feeling away, I thought as I had an inkling of sense still remaining, tugging at me to not pull the pin, surely ablution would rinse this evil out of my soul.

But it grew and I could feel the devil inside me growling with such anger that it drove me to raise my hands to my face and place my fingers on my eyeballs. ‘Gouge them out’, he said.
‘Then what?’ I replied.
Silence.

He’s a prick of a bloke. He entices you with rose, wine and a whisper, gets you intoxicated on his voices, scented and in love with him, commands you to evil and then washes his hands clean from you once you’ve committed your deed.

Then he was gone.

I finished, dried and got dressed. The feeling waned but lingered faintly.
Suddenly, it daunted on me and I wondered where this feeling came from.
It has me confused and misplacing my demarcations between a trigger and a pen, a sword and words, a semi colon and a full stop.

I don’t know exactly what to make of it,
I won’t discuss it with anyone,
and yet, here I am writing about it,
the only way I can express anything these days.

Was it something I ate,
or was it a taste of my fate,
delivered to me in surrealist carrot sticks,
not dangled, but on a plate.

W.E.

Suicide (mental) note

suicide

The only thing harder than suicide
is living with the inner war of
cowardice and bravery for not
going through with it

-Wesam El dahabi.

How does the dichotomy turn into reconciliation,
How do answers agree with questions,
When ending it seems the only suggestion,
From the highs of elation and the lows of depression.

How do I look myself in the face,
When all I can conjure is utter disgrace,
Wherever I find myself, I’m out of place,
Death seems such a worthy embrace.

Then my cowardice kicks in, urges me to go on,
Ignore bravery and sing life’s song,
Urges me there’s more for me, the journey is long,
And I have to fake for others, being strong.

W.E.

-think

think

-think

It is no coincidence that the most common form of
suicide is by shooting to the head

The second being hanging

Both, a way to cut off the connection of the brain
to the heart

Perhaps because the brain thinks but the heart knows

and jealousy wins

-W.E.

Maybe the pain of truth is too much to bare.
What will you allow to command you through your life?
Then there are those who don’t go through with suicide, but slowly sabotage themselves enough to numb the connection, to deny their purpose.

Perhaps this is why people refer to those who commit suicide as cowards, unable to admit defeat of the mind, to let the heart control them and subdue them to truth.

Your mind is irresponsible, don’t trust it but your heart is also no command centre if you have soiled it with vileness and vulgarity.

You can’t cleanse your heart and have a mind that still wants to control, you can’t educate yourself enough if your heart is wretched.

Idle, your soul watches and will witness against both.
-W.E.

Intersection

reconciliation

Where suicide and ambition reconcile
-W.E

Still, I’m not creative enough to satisfy my soul with a method inspiring enough.

But then again, perhaps the pain of those poor souls who have led the way was too great to wait for inspiration, ambition, the greater steerer towards their destination.

-W.E.

Introversion – thirty

introversion302

Were it not for the spectacle of extroversion,
I would have committed suicide a long time ago.
But there are no creative ways to die that have
inspired me yet.

So I died on the outside, to the world I am dead,
and live on abundantly, on inside instead.

-W.E.

It would be much easier to leave me be,
Forget my existence, ignore your attempts at civility.
Don’t question yourself, with your soul plea,
Ignore your heart, get off your knees.

I’m numb to it all, I don’t feel anything more,
I’m struggling even, my children to adore.
I’m barren and empty, stricken and sore,
I have no enigma, I have no lore.

Nothing to offer, nothing to take,
No heart swell, no heart ache.
Mindless and cold, still as a lake,
Slumber escapes me, forever awake.

-W.E.

The Aftermath

devastation

I’ll leave a trail of devastation behind
and you’ll still have no one else on your mind
-W.E.

The after taste is bitter,
salty,
ammonium,
metallic even,
but you keep a vial of me around your neck,
sipping it,
slowly killing yourself off,
suicidally attached,
visiting me in my dreams,
expecting me in yours.

Barren your house,
it creaks awaiting my grease,
for me to unhinge your rusty doors
and allow my wind to pass through,
just so you can catch a waft of me,
as devastating as I am a tornado,
you long for the wreckage.

Broken planks and shards of glass,
splintered feet and molten hearts,
is the pain really worth me?

-W.E.

Why you can’t see me

If you’re concerned about my inattentiveness, it’s not because I’m not present, I am. I really am here, but not where you’re looking.

I’m the spaces between words, the lines between paragraphs and the borders between pages.

I’m the gap in your front teeth, the space between your eyes, and the area from navel to neck.

I’m the valley between mountains, the breeze skirmishing between trees and the wind beneath eagle’s wings.

I’m the silence between thunder, the quiet before the storm and the deafening after lightening crackle.

Wherever you look, you won’t see me because you’re so used to seeing only what’s manifest in front of you.

I work in the shadows, I walk without name, and I cannot contain myself, but you still wouldn’t know it’s me.

I revel in this loneliness, the silence and the anonymity, because even if I showed you, you wouldn’t believe it’s me.

I’m nothing you’d expect to see.

It’s quite fine by me, thirty eight years of it and it’s the only way you know after a while.

I have family, I have a friend and I know a few people but they see it as insanity. I see their snarls, I don’t fit their moulds, and their suitability boxes aren’t ticked.

But when the shit hits the fan, they remember me. The guy who can fight, the guy who can write, the guy who’ll stand up and the guy who’ll shout.

The guy who knows no fear, who lones it year to year.

I’m that guy you want by your side down a back alley, next to you when you’re struggling to breathe and consoling you when life gets too much.

I’ve spent all this time alone so I can figure out the things you all struggle with because you don’t want to be alone.

Over eleven years ago I raised my heart on a temple step and asked God to make me invisible. I said it like a child wishes for superhero powers in their daily role play amongst peers.

I wanted out of this world; I wanted a suicide, not of the bodily kind but of being seen.

I must have been granted thousands of wishes and had endless supplications in my life answered, oblivious to them all as I take them for granted. But this one request I had was heard and it has been the best thing that has happened to me as people literally flaked off my life’s shoulders and withered away.

As I have mentioned in another post, I have a very high wall. Since then, only a few people have climbed over. I value those people; they’re courageous and courteous to my nature. I can count them on one hand!

-W.E.