When I want to die I come to you. I never find you. Sometimes I find someone else. That is nice. After spending some time with that someone else, I no longer want to die.
I want to die now. I want not to exist. I want nothing related to me never to have existed. I want utter and complete disappearance — from everyone’s memory, from everyone’s heart, every trace of me erased. I want to die.
How many people walk years, all of their lives, with this deep deep longing for death?
I like to put myself on death’s threshold. That, for me, is the place of love. No one, in my mind, can possibly love me as much and they would love me if I were about to die. I have been told that’s an entirely mistaken belief. I have been told that that is a fraught space, that exhaustion, frustration, anger and pain mix with love at that junction. Love is not pure and nowhere near its height. I have experience this myself. Yes this is an unmovable feature of my belief system. It’s a pillar around which I have built my understanding of love, loneliness, despair, comfort. I can bang my head against the proof of its wrongness till my head is broken and brain matter leaks out, and still believe it. I cannot not believe it.
I wish I could talk to Fran. I wish I could talk to Ornella. I wish I could talk to Gabri. I wish I could talk to Annalisa. I wish i could talk to Margherita. I wish I could talk to Ester. I wish I could talk to Carolyn. I wish I could talk to Luisa. I have lost so much. None of them wants to talk to me. Except Fran, who is dead.
inside(r) psychoanalysis 