Sweet relief

So I write this because writing has always helped me to process. And because I want everyone and nobody to see it at once. Because I feel frustrated with the lack of depth some people possess and like a selfish, spoiled, brat for indulging in even thinking what I'm going through is remotely hard.

But it is. For me. And I recognize in the grand scheme of things that it's minuscule. So there's my prelude and disclaimer. Here goes...

I moved to LA with my husband 2 years, 3 months, and 1 day ago. It was a scary/exciting move. We didn't have jobs or even a place to live, really. We signed the lease with the U-Haul sitting outside the apartment office. We came down on a whim and mostly a prayer, hoping to find our success here. My dreams of grad school, mainly John's dreams of music industry domination.

But here we are. Approximately 821 days from the beginning of our journey and it looks like we've failed at our mission. We've worked hard. Prayed harder. And really... NOTHING.

No. Not nothing. A whole lot.

We've been witness to murder and poverty and social injustice from an uncomfortably close vantage point. And I don't mean to separate ourselves because while I recognize the privilege we've come down here with, we've been just as broke and desperate as our neighbors in the ghetto. I've caught myself behaving like an animal after being treated like one by the slumlords that manage our complex.

It's hard to rise above when you're wading through this much bullshit.

At the moment, we're both unemployed with no prospects to pay rent for January. Each day it's looking more and more like we'll have to move back in with our parents and hope for better luck in the top half of the state. Shitty prospects, but not tragic by any means. I know our choices have gotten us to this point, but I guess I was hoping that our intelligence, hard work, and prayers would have made those choices have a much different outcome.

And here's the heartbreaking revelation that I've recently come to: there is no giving up in life. Lord knows I've wanted to. But even if I gave up - if I just sat down and refused to move - life would continue to happen to me. I would still be a participant in life and the progression of time no matter how much I scream that I just want out.

And there's the crux of it - suicide is the only way out. The only way to get sweet relief from the relentless pursuit of survival. I don't think I actually have what it takes to go through with it, but I've recently started thinking about it with an entirely different perspective. I've begun to really understand the feeling that people who do it must have. It's not really about attention (although for some I'm sure it is), it's just an aching for that sweet relief. Sure, it's selfish. But I get it now.