It would be easier if I’m bedridden because I’m beaten black and blue, or consumed by mortal illness.
At least then I have physical proof of my ailing and concrete ways to cure myself.
At least then I know what I’m fighting.
It would be easier if I’m bawling my eyes out and choking on my own tears.
At least then I know things are too much and my threshold of pain has been breached.
At least then I know how to cope.
It would be easier if I’m overwhelmed by emotions or suffocated by the silence.
At least then I know where to point my fingers and which skeletons to dig.
At least then I know what vain attempts I could take, in the hope of making myself feel better.
Because even drowning in the urges to harm yourself is still better than being numb all over.
Better, than being so spent you couldn’t even get out of bed or ask for help.
Better, than feeling so detached and empty, without even knowing why.
À la mort.