The Art of Falling

As I walked along the riverbank earlier today, my toe caught on a small rock. I lurched forward a bit but did not fall. One foot in front of the other, I continued walking. It was as though my stumble did not even happen. No one noticed. Not the first time it happened, nor the second or third. It was as though I was the mighty oak tree, incapable of cracking no matter how many branches fell to the ground.

It seems I have taken to falling again.

I remember what it was like to fall. To frequently stumble. To painfully crash to the ground floor, feel the dirt worm its way into the scrapes already coating my knees, the grit in my fingers. No matter how often I fell, the intensity of the collision only startled me once. Its effects, however, stuck around for months.

In my head, I could feel the deceptive dance of desperation making its presence known. Just one more slash to release enough to carry through the next hour, just one more pill to ignore the rest of today. If I did enough of both, I could be me again, right? The shadows flirted about the edges of my vision, present yet visible only if I pretended not to look. My hands would find their way to my face, nails to skin – and yet I could not stop the intensity or the desire to end the thoughts. To end me, the mighty oak tree.

That was what it was like to have fallen, but this last month has not been that. This is something new.

I remember what it was like to be actively suicidal, to be so consumed with the idea of my own demise that it brought me peace. My first suicide attempt was 10 years ago on this day. I no longer want to die. I actively enjoy my life and those in it. And yet, today I cannot see the future beyond tomorrow. Is a fragile life worth living? Slowly, the pieces chip away.

This is the art of falling.

As I sit and type, I feel nothing. My hands are cold, my legs are sore from hiking, and even though I ate relatively little the whole day, I am not hungry. I feel nothing. The numbness is relieving in its own way, dulling down the pressure of juggling classes, work, and a highly volatile family but also graying the vibrant sunrises and first blades of grass beginning to poke through winter’s crust.The churning of my intestines is mildly satisfying, a temporary substitute for the gnawing hunger slowly consuming the pieces I call Me. My soul is starving; why should anything else get fed first? I entertain thoughts about turning back to the life I ran away from, the liquor and the pills and the razor that was always in my back pocket to fill the void. And I feel nothing. The small recesses of myself left are terrified, of both me and what is likely to come. My jokes have gotten darker, fully absorbing the sour edge of false indifference.

It is false because it is not me.

I am the old soul who can see the wisdom in walking away and the passion driving the force to be close and yet consider both equally. I am the curious mind who wanders into wonders and embraces them even if their mystery is solved. The ability to feel sadness so strongly it consumes my entire being, smiling because I can touch joy, treating care like Halloween candy and sharing with everyone I meet, greeting those who knocked me down with a vicious uppercut – those things are me. This bitter, aloof, vaguely suicidal personality who has taken over my body for the past month is not me. Not at all.

This is my plea, my call home to me. I’m tired of falling.