Cold Blooded Remorse

Woah, that was a close call—but I live to see another day.

Nothing gets your life moving like the brink of death, right? No, it totally shut me down. This wasn't a new lease on life. This was not a blessing. This was just an extension of misery for me.

Waking up was dreadful. The emotional hangover was strong. My eyes flutter open, and the aftermath of my rage is staring me in the face. I'm already standing in the quicksand of deep sadness from past traumas, and now I’ve just added another one. My heart is heavy, my arms are throbbing, and I can still feel the fire in my veins pulsating. The momentary pleasure has now faded. The blood and tears have dried, but now I'm stuck with the consequences of my actions—and so is everyone else. I'm ready for the world to reap my pain.

My mind switches over from sadness to anger: This is everyone else's fault but mine. Why hasn't anyone noticed? Why have they let this go so far? I have been screaming—why can no one hear me? Why is no one listening?

People are so quick to speak of selfishness when someone takes their own life... "Think about your family, friends, all your loved ones... "You’re not ending your pain, you’re spreading it onto others."

Although partially true, why do people fail to mention the view from the other side? How painful and selfish that statement can be. For those living while suffering, it can be as painful as it sounds. That statement traps someone who is suffering in their own demons without an escape. It made me feel like I was stuck in purgatory. I was walking around life after experiencing years of compiled traumas while trying to compensate in whichever way I could to get my fix of high joy. That statement made me feel like I had no true way out, and the only way I knew would be seen as a cowardly act that would defy the strength and resilience I had shown my whole life. That statement successfully had me in the waiting room of death for many more years, repeating the cycle of indulging in risky behavior until I could come up with a better plan out of my misery.

I've seen both sides. I know how it feels to sit in a mind full of dark matter for years, hoping daily I could get it to end. I also know how it feels to lose friends to suicide and overdoses, while trying to do that purposely to myself, unknowing they were struggling as well. There is no deeper remorse than watching others accomplish what you could not and seeing what it does to those around them. My heart bleeds for everyone it reaches. I have sat here and lived for those people who have died, and I carry their weight every day.

Needless to say, I survived that day—and you can say it was for my loved ones, family, and friends—but I don't believe it was, because the person they thought they knew did die. What I had left of my innocence and adolescence froze over, and I went cold. I progressively became a different person as my inner battle went on. I dropped my former identity, and Sandos was born in the cold-blooded guilt of remorseful living.

I continued to live in misery, shaped as extreme joy, chasing whatever high I could. And my ego will tell you it was for the selfish needs of others. He couldn’t fathom taking his own life "purposefully," knowing what it would do to those around me. That, in itself, felt very selfless of me. I didn’t make the best decisions. I hurt plenty of people. But I did what I needed to survive. I fell many times without grace—but I got back up again.

On that particular day—the first of many—I got back up again. For me.

This near-death experience only left me with resentment toward others and even more hopelessness than before. I went through this silently—ashamed, like everything else I’ve gone through. I never voiced my emotions on what I was going through, because I didn’t know how to. Most people never suspected what was going on. I expected them to just know. I expected them to see my actions, compare them to how I normally am, and notice something was wrong. I forgot—they had nothing to go off of. My baseline was a façade. They couldn’t see who I was because I was never honest with them about myself. I just played along to the charade. I blamed them daily in my head for what I was putting myself through.

They did not know—and if they did, it was hard to truly understand the magnitude of it. I only showed them the faces of laughter, happiness, and pure pleasure. At the time, most people didn’t know I carried these other faces as well.

I didn’t want people to know—and I think I did a great job.

That anger and hurt carried me for many years as I continued to destroy myself. I hid the suicide attempts, the self-harming, the intentional substance abuse (hoping to hide behind an accident), and the true reasons behind my pain. I only showed the risky behavior and the faces of confidence and charm, because that’s what people assumed. That assumption was far better than my truth.

Well—deep breaths in; deep breaths out... I am alive.

I pull myself out of bed and get rid of the evidence from the scene. It’s the start of a new week. And like I said, the Ruben from before no longer lives inside. The mask is not slipping off this time. It’s time to pick up the pieces, and it’s only upward from here for me. I’m carrying the extra baggage I just added—but I’m strong. This will not deter me from my path of destruction.

I need to get help. I know this isn’t normal, but neither am I. Again, I didn’t get the proper help just yet. I chose to ignore the seriousness of my actions. From the moment I woke up, I knew it was to be ignored and unspoken of. I knew I would end up burying what happened the day before.

I am a warrior. We worry not of scars from past battles. We move forward and prepare to conquer the next one. The war is not over. In fact, it had just begun, and at the time, we speak not of woes on the battlefield to those who have not been there. But I was going to make sure the world didn’t get away with this.

I will not allow anyone to notice the added weight of the day prior, but they will know my rage.