Something’s Rotten in the state of Denmark

The gnats are back. I think it’s because they sense something rotting in me. It’s like this sick, festering wound that heals just enough to make it bearable. Then something rips it open and its fresh again, weeping and crusting. I want it to heal. 
I want to be there for my husband. I want to be able to focus on his depression without my own darkness clouding things. The mania is no better. I want to write and create and have sex, but when I don’t do those things I spiral down. I feel like I spiral more than I fly. 
I went into the living room upstairs in my grandfather’s house. I live there, but I never go into that room. It feels too much like my childhood. I love and hate being surrounded by her things when she’s not here. I could visit her at the nursing home, because I’m a piece of shit. 
I work in a place that makes me feel like a good person for 36 hours. I leave and then I start to feel like a shitty person again. 
It feels like I don’t add anything to people’s lives. They say I do by just being me, but you can’t pay in pieces of yourself. I’ve done that so much in my life that there are whole chunks of me that are missing. I don’t have that many pieces left to give out. 
This all sounds like whiny bullshit, I know. I’m 29, trying to get my shit together. I’m a diabetic who was too depressed and pathetic to take care of myself for so long that my body is trying to fall apart. It’s a struggle to brush my teeth sometimes. Who is like that? Who slowly kills their body because they are that selfish?
I want to escape my brain sometimes. I want to be open, to let people know being Bipolar is ok, to give them some insight. I don’t know if I’m doing that anymore. I think I’m just seeking attention, like that one anonymous person told me on Sarahah. 
It’s things like that, comments like that, that make me question everything I do. Out of all the wonderful, inspiring messages that I received, that’s the only thing I can remember. It doesn’t matter what other people think, but it’s on a loop on my head. Things get looped, like a record player skipping and scratching all day. Sometimes, it’s one line from a song. A song that doesn’t exist most times. Random phrases, repeating and repeating until nothing in my brain feels real. 
I feel like I’m living underwater sometimes. I’m not living my life, not really. I’m floating. Sometimes I connect and I’m floating in the most amazing, warm water. The next minute the water turns cold, and choppy, and I think I’m going to sink to the bottom of the ocean and I would enjoy it. 
I try not to censor myself. I worry that what I write will scare people, or make them worry. I don’t know how to win. Is there really such a thing as winning, in real life, besides contests? I’ve won because I found someone who feels like they’ve won the lottery because they have me. I just wonder if the prize is really gold, or iron pyrite. Except I’m the fool, walking obliviously towards the cliff- maybe even deliberately. 

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, and most days, I think it’s me. 

The Five Things You Learn on 72-Hour Hold in the Psych Ward

It’s National Suicide Prevention Week. This week has always meant a lot to me, as someone who has dealt with depression and mental health issues her whole life. I’ve also had people very close to me try and commit suicide, and I’m so glad they failed. My family has always had mental health issues- I don’t feel like I’m letting any skeletons out of our closet, as things like this are starting to be talked about more, genetics play a HUGE part in mental health.This is not about my family, though, it’s about me. I just wanted to give some background to those who might be reading this and didn’t have any idea.

On the morning of July 2nd, a Thursday morning, after a frantic call to my doctor and my mother, sobbing into the phone as I sat on the toilet, trying to keep myself from swallowing pills and from waking up my boyfriend from the sounds of my choked breathing, I went to the ER at Summit Hospital. My mother met my boyfriend and I downstairs and we all went in together. As we were pulling into the parking lot, my mother was trying to reassure me and at that moment I couldn’t stop shaking and crying.

The beginning of the week had been a blur. I don’t remember being at work at all and when I would get home, all I would do was cry and tell my boyfriend how much better off he would be without me. I sent rambling, incoherent text messages to friends over Facebook, worrying them only to tell them I was fine in the morning. The mornings were ok because I knew that I had to make it through work, I had to put on that mask and be strong. I’ve always been very good at ignoring things and plowing ahead, and work was no different. I’m a quiet person at work, having my headphones in usually keeps people from talking to me.

The night before, though, had been the worst. My boyfriend didn’t know what to do, he just kept holding me and letting me wail and reassuring me that it was just my new medication. The new medication was a HUGE factor, but I had been letting all my feelings and anxieties sit below the surface for so long that the side effects from the medication was all it took for me to snap.

I want to tell you about my experience at the ER, but mine was not a typical experience. I was treated horribly, like I was less of a person, because they heard ‘suicidal thoughts’. I want you to know that this is NOT the rule, but the exception to the rule. The way I was treated by the hospital staff was atrocious and I will leave it at that and skip ahead to the Psych Ward and the five (there could be so many more than five) things you learn on 72-hour hold in the psych ward.

1 You can kill yourself with an infinite number of things that you have never imagined.

I was admitted very late at night, so I didn’t get the full speech of all the things you cannot have, as everyone was asleep and they had to be very quiet while admitting me. I heard the whole list the next morning, though, when a new patient was admitted. Here’s the short list: shoestrings, drawstrings, the wires in your bra. You had to turn in your plastic eating utensils before you left the cafeteria or the break room on the ward. There were sensors on the bathroom doors, so you weren’t allowed to hang towels on them, lest you try to hang yourself. The showers had no rods or curtains, for the same reasons. You had to aim yourself under the spray of water and try as hard as possible to get all of the soap off of yourself, because the knobs was built into the shower so it didn’t stick out. Door knobs also turned, but did not stick out from the door. Every shower was lukewarm, because if the water got too hot, you could injure yourself. The toilets had no seats, the sink had no faucet. Mattresses were all foam. Candy had to be individually wrapped, though that never made sense to me, as you could try and choke yourself with the candy, but I didn’t question it. Pencils were not allowed unless they were given out by the nurses and given back as soon as you were done with them. Games couldn’t have small pieces, so the only game we had was Jenga. All of these things made sense and were necessary, but I had never even contemplated them before.

2. You are going to meet people who will change your life.

My first full day in the ward, I said absolutely nothing unless I was spoken to. I was so scared and I was so angry, I was afraid to speak. I didn’t want them to have any reason to hold me, because 72 hours could turn into a week, I had been told by fellow patients. We were shuffled off to breakfast, which was surprisingly good, but we were only allowed to sit in certain sections. There was the suicide ward, of which I was a member, then there were the alcoholics/drug addicts, then the people who were there for anger management. I sat with no one the first day, ate my rubbery eggs and listened to the people around me talk.

There was a girl, I never learned her name since she left the day after I got there, so I called her Bulbasaur. She had a really nice Bulbasaur tattoo on her neck, and when I told her so, she scowled at me and rolled her eyes. I decided that not talking to anyone was still a good idea at that point. She was there for partying, I heard her tell another girl. She drank a lot and was a compulsive liar, I could tell just by some of the stories she told in group. Bulbasaur would stare at all the men in the groups, since the groups were all segregated and all of the different wards would mix based on which groups they thought you would need to attend. My first group was dealing with anxiety. Hilariously enough, I’ve never felt more anxiety than on that day, the first group I was in.

Bulbasaur was there and she kept staring at Shaq (the nickname I gave to a super tall black man who was there to save his marriage/anger management counseling). She was obvious enough about it that he said something to her about it after class. She shrugged and said that he looked some dude that she had banged at the last party she was at and was later arrested because of driving home drunk from said party. He assured her he wasn’t, and that he was married and she continued to follow him around the center. She was one of the only people I met there that didn’t seem to want any sort of help. She had been in places like this three or four times to avoid jail time.

After group, which you have pretty much all day, you’re allowed to watch TV or color, basically free time. This is where I met Big Yellow. She was this amazing black woman who wore nothing but a yellow sleep dress the entire time I was there. I had finally started talking a bit, as my doctor had pulled me out of group to talk to her that afternoon and it looked like I was going to get out on Saturday. Well, Big Yellow was talking to me about Pink Hat (who always wore a pink hat- I’m super clever, I know), who had put it on CMT. She ‘hates country music, and almost everyone’s crazy ass’. She goes on to tell me not to take anything Pink Hat says too seriously, because she doesn’t remember half of what she says. Pink Hat would be having a nice conversation with you, you’d say something, she would give you a hair-raising scowl and turn around and leave. This happened to me twice while I was there to which Big Yellow says “Don’t mind her crazy ass- CMT is awful!”

It was snack time that night, and since it was Friday night, the cafeteria is closed down and they deliver food to us. We have to eat it in the break room, but we can have as much of anything we want. I’ve made friends with another person by this point, Flannel Pants, who was a super nice guy who was going to be released to a group home here in Nashville soon. Well, he was trying to get me to try a packet of peanut butter with chocolate syrup poured on top and I told him that I had been doing low carb before I came in. I might ought to tell you that everyone there called me Blue, because at the time, my hair was, you guessed it, blue.

At hearing this, Big Yellow locks eyes with me from across the room and she says, “Blue, you eat WHATEVER THE HELL YOU WANT. Look where you are, girl- eat whatever the hell you want”. My eyes teared up a little bit and I proceeded to eat ice cream, a banana, peanut butter packets covered in chocolate and a brownie.

3. Smile and Play Jenga

On Friday, since I was told I would most likely be able to leave the next day, I warmed up completely. I began speaking in group, I was animated- I felt like there was a light at the end of the tunnel. We had a free period, that was gym. The gym had two backboards that didn’t have rims, a badminton set and some footballs/basketballs. Most people just went because they would bring the radio and let you listen to it for 30 minutes. It was another chance to talk to Big Yellow and Flannel Pants, who I had quickly grown fond of, so I went. Big Yellow and I took a seat on the sidelines and some of the people from the addiction ward played badminton. Pink Hat had a friend, No Belt, who’s pants wouldn’t stay up to save her life, and they started dancing. It was one of the worst things I had ever seen, since No Belt was also No Bra, but it was the first time I had seen true joy in that place. Me and Big Yellow started cheering them on and this is when I met Mustache Jesus.

Now, Mustache Jesus is an example of how smiling can help and hurt you. Big Yellow and I were still watching the dancing and a man in a robe and bright yellow socks (most people just walked around in socks) comes over and I give him a smile. Big Yellow’s eyes get wide, as if this was a mistake and Mustache Jesus grabs my hand. He proceeds to tell me this fantastical story about how he doesn’t belong in here, he needs to get back to his wife. Now, his wife has died, but his brother, Fred, was supposed to take care of her, because she had his Mason ring, but she was buried with it. He had to get out and dig her up before Fred did.

I was engrossed in his story, mostly because I hate being impolite, which luckily, wasn’t a problem for Big Yellow. She keeps loudly saying “YUP, that’s good, MHMM, alright now, get on” until he shuffles off and starts shaking someone else’s hand. She looks at me and sighs “That man is crazy as hell, don’t smile at him no more”. Wiser words have never been spoken.

After gym is visitation. My mother and my sister come to see me. They brought me new clothes (I had the same ones on since early Thursday morning), a Snickers they didn’t get to bring in and my sister had brought me a copy of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, so when they left, I was in a fantastic mood. I was in such a good mood that Flannel Pants and I decided to play Jenga. He told me that as long as he had been there, about two weeks, no one had played any games. I told him what a tragedy this was and we proceeded to play ten games of Jenga, the last being the most epic game of Jenga every played.

As we continued to play, more and more people from the ward joined us. They were all standing around and laughing and we had almost beaten the floor record of new levels made without knocking the tower down. We all got so excited that by the end, the night shift nurses made us put the game away, as we were exciting everyone too much. Big Yellow muttered an expletive under her breath as he walked away. We made thirty new rows and as everyone was shuffling off to go to bed, Flannel Pants hugged me and thanked me for playing with him. Big Yellow said it was the best day she’d had in a long, long time and that tomorrow night, she wanted to play. I went to my room and cried, because I hoped so much that I wouldn’t be there tomorrow night.

4. Happiness is a Jolly Rancher Away

The first night I arrived, there was a guy that was still awake and he came up and introduced himself to me. He actually called himself the Candy Man and pulled out a bag of Jolly Ranchers from his pocket. He gave me a handful and said that if I never needed anymore, to let him know. Also, he told me that this place wasn’t all that bad. The next day, he didn’t get out of bed all day, as he was sick from all of the meds they were giving him, but he still popped his head out for dinner and gave me some more Jolly Ranchers. Sometimes, the smallest things can make a huge difference.

5. Life is worth it, no matter where you are.

The very moment I realized I wasn’t going to get to leave with my mother and boyfriend, I wished I had never set foot in the ER. I wished that I could have accessed that small part of my brain that was still sane, that could still form rational thoughts and convince myself that I was okay. I realize now, looking back, that I ended up exactly where I needed to be. I knew I sounded crazy, I knew I wasn’t making any sense, but you’re not thinking when you’re like that. People say “I could never kill myself- it’s so selfish. They must not have been thinking about their families and the people who love them”.

THEY’RE NOT. They can’t think about anything except how much it hurts, how their brain is shouting at them that they’re not worth it, they should give up, they make everyone’s lives worse. Their rational brain is locked away and is just forced to watch as the depression, anxiety, medication, etc. takes over. Someone who is suicidal isn’t rational and can’t really make decisions for themselves at that point. And as scared as I was, and as badly as I wanted to get out of that place, that’s where I needed to be.

The medication left my system, I started feeling better and listening in group and all I wanted to do was get out and live. I hadn’t felt like living in months and here I was, so ready to jump back into my life and love everyone in it.

If you need help, ask for it. It’s going to hurt and it’s going to be hard, but it’s going to be worth it. You don’t always have to be strong, let other people take care of you. Take that mask off for a little while, because we need you. The world needs you. Maybe that’s the sixth thing that I learned from the psych ward.

6. You might not realize it, but the world needs you, so much more than you know. Ask for help. Don’t let depression and anxiety silence your voice.

Little Silences

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When you live your life in little silences, you don’t realize how much you despise the silence being broken until it’s someone you don’t know that’s breaking it. I sit at my cubicle, reading a book online, which is my usual activity during the days when there is no work. I sense someone standing at my side, but I don’t hear anything they’re saying. I take my headphones out long enough to register that they’ve asked me a question, which I barely heard the tail end of.

“Did you want to help us with the board?” The voice asked as I felt the small crash of my silent bubble bursting, which is funny, because the inside of the bubble was full of music and the exciting life of someone else doing things that I would never do while I read my book. I was instantly irritated, but I have made a living out of keeping irritation off of my face.

I look up to meet the face of another man who works with me and I smile, unconvincingly, “The board?” I instantly realize that he is trying to be nice and really has no intentions of me saying yes, but he goes on to tell me about the monthly board that they do, filled with birthdays and the five highest producing members on the team. I mumble my assent and get out of my seat, which I normally only do for smoke breaks or going to the bathroom, which I realize I should do. I often forget the time of day or little things like my name, since I am so absorbed in reading.

I have challenged myself to ‘live life to the fullest’ and ‘make more friends’, but now, on the brink of putting together a board with people I have barely talked to, I want to go back to ‘being nice when spoken to’ and ‘being left alone with myself to do my job and read’. On the brink of making more work friends and filling my small day with even smaller tasks and laughter, I decide to quietly make my way back to my cubicle and back into someone else’s life, a whole world away.

Sometimes, I would rather be a non-existent omniscient observer in a non-existent world than an existing person in my own.

The List I Found

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I found a list that I made somewhere towards the end of last year. There were a couple of months last year where I was severely depressed, to the point I was thinking about ending my life on a regular basis. I cannot pinpoint exactly what it was that triggered the depression or why it was so severe, because depression is an animal that to me has never made much sense.

I have a bad habit of trying to bargain or rationalize my depression away. I would constantly tell myself that I know so many people who were way worse off than I was and that I had no reason to be depressed, but that just made me feel even worse about myself. The list I made is scary and a little hard for me to look at, but I wanted to share it just because I want to show how far you can come, even after being so low:

1. You are replaceable.
2. No one loves you.
3. You are unwanted.
4. Everyone hates you.
5. You’re ugly.
6. You’re fat.
7. You should just kill yourself.
8. You make no one’s life better by being in it.
9. You can’t even take care of yourself.
10. You’re a failure.

It hurts to see how low I was. This list was just sitting in a notebook at work, made between notes and facts and numbers I would need. I was at that point where it doesn’t matter what your friends or loved ones tell you, because you’re in the grips of your depression. Your mind is no longer your own. What do you do when you are no longer in control of your own mind? I kind of lost myself for a little while.

Then, as cheesy as I know it sounds, I found someone who helped me remember who I was again. He did it without even knowing he was reviving every part of me. You know that feeling you get sometimes where you wake up and you don’t know where you are, but you inexplicably know you’re safe? He was that for me. He had the patience to deal with my broken pieces and he loved me enough to show me how to put them back together.

I am not saying love is an automatic fix-all. I still have days where I don’t love myself and I’m not happy. The thing is, I have someone to share that with. I can say, “I feel gross and I’m sad- let’s go get pancakes”. We watch movies or we go out with friends and the depression gets smaller and farther away until it’s impossible for it to take hold for long enough for me to even register that it’s there.

You can come out of the woods and you can learn to love yourself, or in my case, someone else can teach you how.

Addiction and Being Alive

DISCLAIMER: This is more of a rant. I don’t really want anyone to tell me I’m pretty or I’m not fat or whatever. I’m not fishing, I’m RANTING. If you even read a bit of it, thanks. It’s nice to feel heard sometimes.

To be addicted to something is to be alive, I think. I don’t know one who person who can honestly say that they aren’t addicted to something. It can be something trivial, like biting your fingernails or picking your nose, or you can be addicted to herione. You could argue that some of those examples are more like habits. I would like for you to try and stop biting your fingernails and realize how addicted to the comfort of that small action that you have become.

I am one of those addicted people. I am addicted to many things, luckily none of them are drugs at the moment. I can’t say for certain that I will never be addicted to those things, because I don’t fancy myself a fortune teller. I forsee myself using the word ‘addicted’ a few thousand more times before this is through, but I’m not overly concerned about that fact.

I am addicted to attention. I don’t feel like I was starved of it as a child, but I feel like a lot of the attention that I got was negative attention. This was not due to my parents- they were amazing and they have loved me at times when I was highly unlovable, which is a lot of the time. I was a fat child.

Let me tell you one thing: those of you who have loved a fat child or befriended a fat child when you were NOT a fat child- well, you are the heroes of this story. You are the ones that made my life halfway livable and I can never repay you for this. It might sound over-dramatic and maybe it is, but I am telling you that if I had not had the small handful of people who loved me despite what I looked like and I mean REALLY loved me, I wouldn’t be here.

I said that to say that there are not many people who love a fat child. Yes, they can be adorable, but most of the time, all you can think is “What kind of awful parents let their child grow up to be fat? I mean, don’t they control what the little shit eats? I just can’t believe they would keep shoveling food into their kid’s mouths and not make them go outside and play”.

I would say “Screw you” right into your face and then spit, but I mean, you’re partly right, I suppose. When I was born, both of my parents worked and worked hard. We ate what they had time to pick up or make and we were happy with it. We never really ate unhealthy things. There was a time, believe it or not, when my mother actually had to force me to eat food. It was long ago and it feels foreign to me now, but it happened.

Somewhere along the way, my greatest and most grand love affair began: my love of food. I don’t just appreciate food, the way every human does because they NEED it to survive. They enjoy the way certain things taste and they crave it, but a lot of people (who feel the friggin’ need to INCESSANTLY point out how addicted and obese Americans have become) say that they only eat it because they need it to survive.

I am a firm believer in the utter bullshit of someone not loving food. I guess it is my heroine. I feel better knowing it’s cooking. If I’m going somewhere to eat or I’m having something special for dinner, I look forward to it as a bright spot in a [somewhat] bleak existence. You know how some of you probably had that thing that always comforted you, maybe like a stuffed animal or a TV show- I have a friend who swears by the curative powers of hot, Krispy Kreme donuts. Well, mine was (and continues to be) food.

Food is never angry with me. It never, though the fact is evident, tells me I’m fat or not good enough. It’s just there, being tasty and delicious. It can help with heartache, help with the names or the looks that I get on a daily basis. You might think that most fat people are paranoid, that people really AREN’T talking about them as often as they think and I give you free reign to go right on believing that. I am here to tell you that I have had more hushed conversations, whispers and jeers than I’d like to admit. I have become sort of good at pretending that I don’t care what people think and more a cataloger of hurts. I have thought of some of the snarkiest, wittiest and most hurtful comments for people who will never think twice about the comment they made about some fat girl walking down the street.

And you know what’s worse? I’m a hypocrite in that way. I’ve made comments about other people to make myself feel better about the comments other people are making about me! I’ve since stopped this behavior (in the year, as I’ve started trying to deal with the bitterness I’ve been nurturing) and I’m trying to atone.

Being called fat and [some] people not enjoying the visual aesthetic of it is not the greatest injustice in the world. I know it seems like all fat people make it out to be more than it is. It hurts just as much as being persecuted for your skin color or your sexual orientation. Being told you’re too skinny, or you’re too pretty (I know I have made fun of people because I just WISHED that were a problem for me) probably hurts just as badly.

It is, though, an injustice. Not only are we made fun of and have to pay more for the same clothes because they used more fabric and it’s hard to just feel beautiful and worthy and want to step out the door, but we’re part of a disease now. An epidemic. The obesity epidemic. I’m part of a select group of people that are plaguing America. It makes me laugh sometimes.

There are no disputing the facts. Being obese is unhealthy- it can cause a myriad of diseases and complications and puts stress on EVERYTHING in your body. Most of the pain I am in daily could be reversed by losing weight. And God, don’t people love to let you know it. The worst are the fat people who AREN’T fat anymore. Jesus, they’re so pretentious.

“I did it, you can do it to.”
“I just, I feel so much better!”

You know, I am genuinely happy for you. I don’t know who or what you had to blow to get that lucky break that diets and exercise started working for you, but good on you. If you were lucky enough to be able to have surgery and have it paid for, I am also happy for you. There is something in me, though, that is righteously angry about the fact that it seems like everyone around me is trying to cure me in some way. Especially if they’re trying to do it indirectly.

I’m telling you from the very depths of my soul that the next person who tells me that I am “so pretty, I should just try and lose some weight”, I will head-butt them with my beautiful, if not rotund, head. I will then walk myself to one of the few stores where I can find clothes that do not have a stupid saying or friggin’ Winnie the Pooh on everything (why do people assume that fatties love Winnie the Pooh or Tweety Bird so much?), buy something sexy and take my fat ass out on the town to get a good meal.

Yes, I am addicted. I will always be addicted. Everyone is addicted to something. Sex, love, alcohol, video games- almost anything that will help you escape from your real life. You sit and think “Is my real life that bad?” I ask myself that a lot these days. It has recently gotten a lot better, even though it took getting damn bad and scary and mildly suicidal to get there. I don’t say any of this to make anyone in my life feel inadequate or like they’ve failed me in some way. I’m just saying, look at your life honestly and say, even though you might love almost everyone and everything in it, that sometimes you don’t just want to get away. Leave it all behind, drive and drive and drive like the movies, end up in a small, quirky little town and build a life. Sadly, cliched and horrible as it is to say, life is not like the movies.

To be addicted to something is to be alive, I think. Are you alive?

In the sky with diamonds.

This is to my beloved Lucy. I don’t have much time- they’ve made it through the gates now. They world is going dark, it’s been so dark here. The only light that I’ve had is the thought of making it out of here alive- the thought that ,somehow, you escaped and you’re alive.

I thought we were safe. The group of people I am with are all just as scared and clueless as I am, but we have stuck together. The dead are walking, Lucy, can you believe it? By now, I know that you know this. No one knows why or how, we just know that overnight, the world changed. How I wish we didn’t get seperated- all I had to do was hold on to you hand a little tighter, but everyone was panicking and running and screaming. The crying of the children is what haunts me that most at night, even more than the feeling of you slipping through my finger tips.

I can hear them at the outer doors now, screaming and yelling to get in, throwing themselves against the doors in their endless, screaming hunger. I wonder if this is God’s way of punishing us all? A sick, twisted version of the dead rising again? I don’t know. I’m wasting time as it is.

I know this will never find you. I hope it never finds you, because that means you will probably find me, either as a zombie or a rotting corpse. I need to tell you how much I love you. I need to tell you that you are the reason I lived and breathed and if I had another chance, I wouldn’t take any of it for granted. The way you wrinkled up your nose when you laughed or how mad you would get when I would drink milk from the carton, though I know you did it, too. I’m so sorry we couldn’t do this together, my love, like we tried to do everything else.

Here, at the end of the world, I want you to know that the only thing I am thinking about is you. I will see you when it’s all over in the sky with diamonds. I love you.

I love writing prompts.

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A writing prompt from Reddit:

Imagine you have just died. You find yourself at a purgatory-esque place, and in order to save your soul, you must convince a divine arbiter that you loved something or someone truly and completely. You have twice your age as a word limit, with an overall cap of 60 words. Go.

I would whisper “I love you” 52 times, but I have already wasted 14 words. I would tell you that you are the only thing that matters, but I could never tell you enough. I am running out of words and running out of time. I love you. I love you. You.