Neon Gravestones

I never thought I'd see my name in lights. I'm sure I dreamed of it at some point, as most people do at some point in their lives, but I think I never thought it would come true. I suppose I always figured that one day I'd crawl out of the funk I'd been in for what seemed like my entire life and I'd finally make something of myself. Perhaps I always figured I'd prove everyone, including myself, wrong. About what? I wish I knew.

I can't really remember the day it all ended, but then again I can never really remember anything that wasn't bad. I know I had a family at some point; a mom and a dad, maybe some siblings, but I don't remember much about them. I can't remember my mother's face or name or the sound of her laugh, nor do I remember if my father had wrinkles or grey hairs or if he liked to smoke tobacco. I remember nothing except shouting, though I don't know how often that occured, and me hiding behind a couch to eavesdrop in on whatever they were bickering about. I have no idea what age I was when this was happening, or if it ever stopped. I can't even remember if I always had both parents, or no parents at some point in my life; they're just blurry figurines in my lost conscience. Like a missing piece of a puzzle.

Any friendships I had are hazy; there were kids in my neighborhood, but no faces stand out. I think I was a lonely soul all throughout my academic life, never eating in the school cafeteria and finding anywhere else to eat that didn't have many people. I don't know why I didn't like being around people, but I do know I never had any type of relationship with anyone when it all ended. There were no flowers placed near my grave at any point since my day; I could just feel it. It was the only thing I've been able to feel ever since my funeral, if I even had one. I had to have gotten down here somehow, though I'm not sure how.

I don't think anybody really knew me around the time it happened. I had been unemployed for the longest time, my previous jobs unknown, and I had a small apartment all to myself. That's the only thing I can remember clearly, because it's where they found me a day after it happened. I can still hear the click of the lock on my bathroom door when I sealed myself in the small tiled room, barely even registering what I was doing. I don't remember writing a note, but if I did it would be useless now; I assume I was always good at hiding things. I bet it's how nobody suspected a thing when things started to get bad. I don't even think I knew my neighbors, since I probably started to hit rock bottom when I moved out of wherever I lived before and got my own place so I didn't have to bother anyone anymore. The isolation probably made whatever I was feeling worse, but I'm not sure if I knew that or not. Maybe I just didn't want to get better. Maybe I had tried but had given up too soon. Maybe I was stubborn and refused to believe I even had a problem. I have no idea.

I think I thought death was the end of everything when I did end it all, meaning I didn't believe in an afterlife. I don't know if I grew up religious, but I do vaguely remember being in churches every now and then. I don't know if they were for weddings or baptisms or funerals or whatnot, but I can remember looking up at the ceiling and seeing paintings of Jesus and other biblical personas. I don't know what my opinions of them were, but I do know that whatever I believed back then didn't really mean anything in the end. Everybody knows that people who die like I did don't go to Heaven, so I definitely didn't do it because I thought I could join whatever God is up there and spend eternity in paradise. I don't even know what that word means.

I don't really know much, do I?

I only really remember things on the anniversary of the day I ended it all. I don't really feel much on other days; I get inexplicable feelings, like when I feel footsteps approaching my resting place only for them to pass right by and care for some other tomb, but it's only on the anniversary do I really have the ability to sit and stew on what I did that day. Why? I don't know. How do I know? I just do. You start to get a hunch after the first few times.

I don't remember anything except what happened after I locked the bathroom door. Sitting on the cold tile floor, swallowing whatever pills I had in my cabinet before looking under the sink and uncapping the bottle of bleach I don't remember buying but was probably only purchased for this exact moment. The entire process was so excruciatingly painful, and for a split second I nearly spat it out and unlocked the door to go get my phone. For a split second I nearly saved myself.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had gotten out of that room before it was too late. I'd been hospitalized before for a botched previous attempt, and I knew there was no way I'd ever want to go back and relive that all over again. I don't think I liked doctors all that much, but I can't remember why. They made me uncomfortable with all their questions when I was in their care, sure, but I don't see that as a reason to not like them altogether. I'm not sure if I even want to know some of the things I reflect on today. Perhaps ignorance really is bliss in the afterlife, or whatever this is.

I do, however, want to know why I did it and the things I may have left behind. My apartment was barely decorated due to my lack of income, so I didn't have to worry about feeding pets or watering plants or taking care of anything that wasn't myself. Maybe I did once and they died, or maybe I never bothered because I didn't think I'd do a good job of it. One of my last thoughts was me chastising myself and saying that I need to get this right this time and not mess up like last time, you fucking idiot. I can't remember much about the last time I was talking about, but I remember loud people all around me and some loud pop song was playing while a warm feeling travelled through my body and I felt extremely happy and carefree. Sometimes I wonder how often I genuinely felt like that without a needle sticking out of my arm or a razor in my hand.

I have no recollection of ever hurting myself or doing drugs, but I remember I looked and poked at thin horizontal lines on my thighs and wrists and little dotted scars on the inside of my right elbow a lot the day it happened. Through my tears I scratched at them with my too-long nails, wanting nothing but to hurt for whatever it is that pushed me to my breaking point. Sometimes I wish I knew what pushed me to end up like this and what I could have done to prevent it.

Could this all have been prevented?

I have no idea what type of person I used to be, but I do think things could have been different. What could have happened if I regretted what I was doing and called an ambulance? If I had gotten the courage to call someone, anyone, and talked things out, would my fate have changed? Would things have gotten better? If I could remember what I was like, maybe I would have a better idea. I hate that I'll never know how things would have gone if I hadn't done what I've done.

Maybe I wouldn't have gotten happier over time. Maybe I'd still be sad and feeling whatever it is that I felt that made me end up like this. I have no idea. But what about the tiny moments of happiness that I'm sure I used to feel? Like taking your very first sip of coffee or tea or any hot beverage on a cold day and feeling a sense of calm wash over you. Or maybe walking down the street and seeing a cute dog, and getting all tingly when it tugs on its leash so it can say hello. Perhaps I'd miss out on seeing a concert, or seeing someone famous on the street, or being able to smell whatever kinds of smell I used to enjoy. Maybe I could have started a new family, whether it's bloodbound or not. If I had made more of an effort and hadn't given up, maybe things would have turned around. There's no one-hundred-percent guarantee of that, but at least I'd know.

Perhaps there is a reason to be alive after all. I just didn't stick around long enough to see if it's true.