Analyse This

[TW: suicide]

I had a dream about you last night.

This is not a rare occurrence.

Though I try to forget about you, to leave you high up on the surface of the sea of my reality, so often you follow me into my dreams, you drown with me, deep into the abyss of my unconscious mind, you follow me, despite my best efforts to leave you behind. And so you slyly infiltrate my sleep and I see you so often in dreams and in nightmares that it doesn’t even surprise me anymore.

You died in my dream last night.

You died three times, actually. It is difficult to explain how there were three of you, but I won’t fret about this too much. After all, you were there, you know what happened. You slit your wrists and hanged yourself from the three light fixtures that hang from the ceiling of your parents’ living room. Three of you, there, dead and hanging.

You died thrice.

The first version of you that was hanging on the left was the person that you were before you met me. I do not know this person although I have heard stories. You were not a bad person, but you were not a good person either.

The second version of you that was hanging in the middle was the man that I know so well, it was you as you were when you loved me, when we were together, when we shared our life, when we had it all. Your wrists were slit vertically, pools of blood had formed on the red carpet below you, and you were still swaying, ever so gently, the light fixture giving the occasional creak under your weight.

The third version of you that was hanging on the right was the person that you are now – tired, unfulfilled, unhappy.

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Naturally, we were all devastated. I could not breathe for the tears would not stop. I had to comfort your sisters and your mother. Everyone was totally shocked, your suicide was totally out of the blue, totally unexpected. There had been no warning signs. Apparently.

I saw all three of you hanging there and couldn’t help but think how you’d done it all so perfectly – the knots, the cuts, all perfect. But then you always were a perfectionist. It made me smile – you had been successful in all three attempts, where I had failed all of mine. But of course. You are the best at everything you do, you win everything, you succeed at everything you turn your hand to. You always win.

You left lots of papers behind, all messages to me. I smiled at your terrible handwriting – my name looked lovely because it was written by your hand. I was secretly smug that everything you’d left behind was for me.

But I found this all terribly ironic that you had taken your own life. After all, part of the reason that we fell apart was because you couldn’t deal with my mental illnesses and you couldn’t understand my suicidal tendencies. Now you needed help, and despite all the times that you had helped me, I didn’t help you – I couldn’t help you, because nobody knew that you were suffering.

You were so sad and I had no idea.

This is the third successive dream in which you have died. In all of three of these dreams, you were trying to tell me something. You reached out to me and communicated with me from your afterlife in various ways in all of these dreams. In all of them you were sorry. And in all of them, I forgave you. And in all of them we loved each other, always.

But last night was just a dream of mine that you had turned up in, once again. I am sure you are fine. I am sure you are happy. I hope that you are ok. I hope you know that you can always ask me for help, and that I will always help you the best way that I can. You know where I am. I am here, always.

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