Trees and Tears
This is my tree, the Isaiah Tree. Isaiah’s dad and I planted it on Tuesday. Wednesday was exactly one year since Isaiah ended his life. Last night, I went out and talked to my tree. Well, I tried to. It was hard to form any words, so I mostly just sat in the dark in silence. Isaiah and I used to do that too sometimes, so it was okay. We would just sit in his basement or on the curb outside my house saying nothing. Sometimes we would listen to music too, but sometimes it was complete silence. I don’t know why we would decide to hang out and then literally not do anything, including speak to each other. I always appreciated those moments though. I think it just showed a lot about our friendship. We enjoyed simply being together regardless of any other factors.
I thought that maybe once the one year mark passed, things would get easier. So far, I’ve been proven incorrect. My feelings are slightly less intense, but there are still many spikes that overtake me. I have a lot of support. Logically I can acknowledge that, but I feel so alone. I don’t know how to explain the pain that I experience every day.
I feel inadequate and weak. I feel like I somehow wasn’t good enough for Isaiah. I feel like I wasn’t a good enough friend, I wasn’t a good enough person. I’m a failure. The darkest parts of my mind tell me that I should have been able to stop him. There’s something that I missed. I fucked up big time and now he’s dead. A real friend would have caught on to something so extreme. I feel like if I only would have been good enough, maybe he would have seen me as something worth living for. But unfortunately he got stuck with a best friend that isn’t worth anything. He died without me, and now I deserve to die without him.
I realize that most of what I just said is completely irrational, but those are the thoughts that constantly run through my mind. I replay the final days over and over again. I scream at myself for not asking him to hang out that day one year and five days ago. The first thing I could think of to say to him was “I’m sorry.” I’m still sorry. I will always be sorry.
I feel like Isaiah didn’t care about me, he didn’t want me. I don’t feel like anyone cares about me, and nobody wants me. I know this is wrong, but it doesn’t change the feeling. I feel insignificant. Do I really matter? I mean, come on now, I’m an emotionally unstable, scarred, pitiful excuse for an eighteen-year-old girl.
I have not self-harmed in 47 days. I have no idea what to do with myself. It seems to get harder the higher that number gets. I find myself growing less and less attached to the idea of not self-harming. My mind turns every object I see turns into a way to hurt myself. I also have the frequent desire to join Isaiah. I know how dramatic that sounds, but I don’t know how else to explain it. I am envious of him. He gets to fall into the vast nothingness of death, to feel nothing at all, to escape while I am left to pick up the pieces of my shattered life.
I don’t know where I’m going with this entry. I’m sorry if this worries you or wastes your time. I figured I should at least be honest somewhere.