The earliest I said that exact sentence (or at least, from what I can remember) was way back in my sophomore year of high school. I won’t even bother to provide any slight context regarding that year and I won’t even try to write anything eloquent or fucking poetic – I can’t. For a fourteen-year-old, it was the end of the world.
The next time I claimed to be in my “lowest point” was during my first semester of college. The semester right after, I said that sentence again. I did the same for the next semester and the next semester and the next semester. It’s kind of funny, actually. It’s like whenever I believe that yep, okay, I’ve officially hit rock bottom, the universe shakes its head (if it had one, I mean) in disapproval and says, “Nope, you’re not even close.” And then, just to prove a point, the universe or life or some ethereal, omnipotent force—whatever it is—grabs on my foot and pulls me further below.
I’m sorry, universe or life or ethereal, omnipotent force, but I have to disagree with you this time. This, right here and right now, is the lowest point in my life.
In the past, I’ve been beaten down more than a handful of times—what person hasn’t, right? But none of those times could compare to the sheer brutality of this semester. If, in the past, the pain I felt was a series of consistent, forceful kicks to my ribcage that left me with shattered bones and permanent spinal damage; what I feel now can be likened to continuously squeezing my lungs to the point where the amount of oxygen I inhale is enough to keep me alive but not quite, where I’m almost totally suffocated but not quite, where I’m gradually approaching my last breath…
But not quite.
My life is in pieces. Hell, I am in pieces. I’ve been absolutely beaten. I am utterly lost and confused and directionless. I am the living embodiment of exhaustion. I spend every waking moment thinking “This is as bad as it gets.” only to have that stupid thought thrown back at my face as I am continually dragged below rock bottom and into the blackest, most haunting depths of oblivion. I am constantly at an internal war with myself, repeatedly fluctuating between feeling nothing at all and feeling too much. I have unravelled into a complete wreck – the sort of hopeless, devastating mess people choose to walk away from. Yet, as I write this at an ungodly hour of the morning, listening to the saddest Spotify playlist I could find, I am fully aware that there still exists an imminent probability that it can and probably will get worse. And that’s exactly what makes everything even more unbearable.
It is likely that I’m no longer making any sense. At this point, every thought I’m translating into a string of words only succeeds in creating a giant web of incoherent ramblings. But whatever, you know? I can’t stop writing.
Basically, it sucks. Everything continuously fucks you over and it sucks. There. Plain and simple. Straight to the point. Nothing poetic or creative about it. There’s no need to make it sound flowery and prettier than it actually is, simply because it isn’t. Pretty, that is. Instead, it’s a mess – a chaotic, unforgiving, vengeful, senseless, inescapable mess – and it is breaking me.
Or maybe I’m already beyond repair. Who really knows?
All I know is that right now, at this very moment, I’ve been stripped down to my weakest and most vulnerable. At this very moment, I am on the brink of hopelessness but not quite – I say “not quite” because I’m sure that one way or another, things will somehow find the means to go further downhill, which will, in turn, make me feel even more hopeless than I currently do. And again, that just sucks.
But I’m hoping it won’t. I’m hoping that this is the worst my life could possibly be. I’m sincerely praying that this really is the actual lowest point in my life because I swear to God, I can’t withstand any more.