skepticamongthefaithful

[skepticamongthefaithful]

[skepticamongthefaithful]

TW: SI

I came close to no longer being here Saturday night.

Honestly, I'm surprised I still am. Though it's funny, how obvious I was about what I intended to do, and no one noticed. I sent so many goodbye texts that I was easily able to brush off the next day - especially when most went unread.

I'm not depressed, I'm just tired, and now I simply feel numb.

[skepticamongthefaithful]

I probably should've called out today...

[skepticamongthefaithful]

You know, for a second there I thought she'd respond with, "I can't dumbass, I'm dead."

[skepticamongthefaithful]

"I wonder what you'll tell people about me after we inevitably break up."

What would there be to say? All I remember is you forcing color into my world, never asking why I preferred black and white photographs. It was never about what made me happy, much less about the why. You only cared about how it'd be seen as boring, unoriginal, as though every idea needed to be a masterpiece, as though I wasn't allowed simply to learn from failure. What irony it all was in the end, when you could only approve of the photos your instructors commented on, never asking in our four years to text you when I got home safe.

What would there be to say about you? I was never there. It was only ever you and the person you could never shape me to be.

[skepticamongthefaithful]

The day I stopped wanting to die wasn't when I finally "moved on" or "got over it." It's when I accepted that you are the love of my life, always in plain view since that night we first kissed as kids, staring out into a pool with a connection so strong fate just kept bringing us back together, until I decided to cut contact with you 3 years ago to "spare me" the pain of your "inevitable death."

It's not kind to admit I let you down when you needed me most, that I expected nothing of you but to die, as I continuously ignored texts that underscore what everyone keeps telling me; "she never had a bad thing to say about you."

I can't take back the words I never shared sober, constantly writing off our flirting as two deeply sad, lonely people simply trying to find comfort in anothers warmth... knowing now you only lead by my example as I continued to be proven the densest mother fucker alive looking back at how often, how obvious you were, how obvious we were to anyone who saw us together - friends and partners alike - asking, "How are they not together?"

Our depression lead us to wanting to be understood, our photography gave us a reason to be together, and now my writing has to do the work of yours that's still missing from this world - your words away from anyone else's interpretation, including mine.

I can't leave this world without the world knowing just how much you meant to me. I can't bear to see others suffer the way I let you for those years I stepped out of your life without so much as an explanation. Most of all, I'll never spend another day letting the people I love go on without knowing how much they mean to me.

Maybe, if there's someplace that lies beyond life as we know it, and I endure another dead friend, you can take care of them above and find comfort in the words I finally learned to speak - to express how much you'll always mean to me.

There's not a day that goes by that I don't think about you, which is fine, because I've learned this grief isn't something I have to move past anymore - but something I can learn to live with.

[skepticamongthefaithful]

As much as you enjoy the company, you know this can't be their home like it is yours.

But they can stay here until they gather up their strength. Make them comfortable. Don't offer solutions. Just listen and cry with them.

I guess that's the benefit of insomnia.

You're awake to pick up calls from people at their lowest.

And the benefit of being depressed/mentally unstable.

You don't add to people feeling crazy for what they're going through. You'll just sit with them until they're ready to get back up.

[skepticamongthefaithful]

I guess that's the benefit of insomnia.

You're awake to pick up calls from people at their lowest.

And the benefit of being depressed/mentally unstable.

You don't add to people feeling crazy for what they're going through. You'll just sit with them until they're ready to get back up.

[skepticamongthefaithful]

I will remove anyone from my life to protect the peace that I've worked so hard for. Nobody took me out of the dark. I did it on my own.

Unknown

[skepticamongthefaithful]

Never have I dealt with anything as difficult as my own soul.

Imam Al-Ghazali

[skepticamongthefaithful]

[skepticamongthefaithful]

You ever have those nights that make you feel incredibly lonely despite knowing you have people who care about you? And for some reason you just want to lay in bed and not associate with anyone or do anything even though you know it’ll make yourself feel less that way.

[skepticamongthefaithful]

The things we don't talk about with grief...

I was an EMT from 2013 to 2021. I've been around a lot of death; patients dying on the way to the hospital, from various illnesses and injuries, to pronouncing a family member after a welfare check when they wouldn't hear back in days/weeks. There were deaths that were sudden, traumatic, and those that - albeit surprising to the family - would have been expected due to age. In that time, I seldom shared the stories of what I saw; always the funny, dumb stories, never the suicides or screams from family members that stuck with me for days/weeks.

For most of that time, I had a partner who I presumed was supportive; the acceptance that, while I would carry the past 24 hour shift on my shoulders driving up to their house at 8am, I wasn't open to talking about it because I wanted to leave work at work.

Back then, I was thankful for how quick they were to talk about their day, asking me out to events and asking for my input on plans together or seminars she'd be speaking at.

At some point in our relationship, I thought about opening up to them, and had - to their interest at the time - invited them out to the Museum of Death in L.A. with a close, goth friend.

They didn't like it. It was all - too much - and while I see now that the actual presentation of pictures and suicide notes may not have been the best introduction to gauge their openness to discuss the vicarious trauma I, to this day, have struggle accepting. Still, there was something in the way she shared her disgust, I was reminded of an earlier time when I had started to realize I was emotionally/psychologically abused in a prior relationship.

The first time, they were attempting to initiate sex, and something about the way she was touching me triggered a freeze response in me. I'm not sure how long I stayed silent, unflinching, but at the time all I could think about was how my previous partner had coerced me into sex when I tried leaving. It took awhile for me to snap out of that, even as they started crying, asking if I was physically disgusted with them. I don't remember our conversation after, but I know she wasn't open to discussing it.

The second time, we were driving back from a thrift store in Long Beach, and I had to pull the car over because something had triggered me yet again - except this time I didn't freeze. This time, something in my "bad breakup" became re-contextualized, and I realized I was sexually violated. I began to cry.

Again, they didn't want to talk about it. They never would, though when I had come up with the idea of making a photoshoot out of it, they were offended I didn't want them there.

Today, I wonder - while we're no longer together - how they would've responded to the grief I've been working through the past year since Syn died. More specifically, I wonder if they would've responded any better than the countless friends, who've been with me through the worst, more than willing to tell me how I shouldn't dwell on this - as though I have a choice.

Grief is such an intense, often life-changing emotion I don't think people ever truly try to understand, and one that will often alienate those we thought would see us to the end. There will be nights you don't sleep. Your body will change; heart rate constantly running tachy, memories harder to keep, your hair will thin or come out in patches, and all the while you'll learn to mask the pain, you'll lose your vision and need to wear glasses if you didn't before.

I've always been very quick to protect those who were going through this in the past, and while I could empathize with the feeings of depression, my own personal experience with grief - my inability to recall most of my time with Syn - makes me see just how death in general is not something people like or even want to hear about.

They actively avoid it, thinking anyone who "focuses on the negative" is only making themselves more depressed, rather than looking for the silver lining.

But there's something about sitting with the feelings of loss and sadness that's cathartic, especially when those feelings arise in discussions with others who've experienced death in their lives.

It's not that we're wallowing it, it's that we're acknowledging it's real and it's fucked up, rather than forcing ourselves to think of the person who died as a fictional character who never existed beyond media.

[skepticamongthefaithful]

Misfortunes of the Living (RIP Cynthia)

(TW for discussing of grief, SI, and death)

A little over a year ago I started writing again, after almost a decade of giving too much credit to "friends" who either didn't understand what a first draft was, or consistently accused me of plagiarism in those times I'd find my voice by acknowledging my pain. On August 22, 2023, a close friend whom I initially bonded over shared trauma and our thoughts on writing 18 years ago, and then later photography in our 20's, passed away. For anyone who's "put up" with me since then, I'll never be able to properly thank you, as it does get incredibly lonely within grief when most of people simply don't have the patience for those actively suffering with grief. It especially gets alienating when people assume you're flaking on them to "wallow in your misery," when really you're struggling to sleep more than 3-4 hours, and you learn to stay silent rather than explain how you still haven't "moved on" from the guilt you feel for not being there for someone who never turned their back on you. It's not a romanticizing of pain, but an acknowledgement of what a person meant to you, doubly so as a fellow artist who struggled with self-confidence and depression... someone who, just like you, had their own hopes and dreams they'd yet to attain - now gone, never to see those things through - while you're still here, dealing with those same hurdles, with people dancing around the crux of their arguments that death isn't something to take seriously, when it's something I spent most of my 20's familiarizing myself with. On August 22, 2024, one year later - 10 minutes shy from when Cynthia's life ended - I read a piece I'd been working on for the better part of the past year, fulfilling a promise I made in High School, writing something for her. It's still not done, but given how much it makes me cry reading it, I know it's close. This is a 3 minute clip of it. RIP Cynthia Garcia.

[skepticamongthefaithful]

18 days and counting.

[skepticamongthefaithful]

Route 66.

June 2024.