Anthropologist/writer Antropologė/rašytoja
Anthropologist/writer Antropologė/rašytoja

Solveiga Zibaite


Livestream of a panic attack

Do I want him to want me?

I will think about this tomorrow – I will be sober and smarter.

You’re welcome, future me. We have a good relationship. I got your back. Like no one does. Don’t ever betray yourself. You’ll figure it out – you’re a smart one. I trust you.

That’s good – I trust you.

Sorry, I hesitated at betray. But I didn’t hesitate on trust.

Oooh, that’s a bad relationship. I would betray my future self, but I wouldn’t like it she did not fulfil her commitments and promises to me. I only care about myself now, the future one can f* off.

People never want to know that what they are now are the best versions of themselves. Or the best results of an experiment. If you knew that you were created by someone less than you – that you were the enhanced version of human experience, you would probably puke your guts out. I can only imagine me and you scrunching our faces and sulking: ‘How pathetic! So I was even worse before? I can never do better?’ Well spare yourself. What torture it is to be despised by your creation, looking down at you with disgust – seeing you as a meagre, backwards version of themselves. Is this how having children feels like?

This is also what you would say if you found out that a form of time travel that already exists– a relationship with your future self – is the best form of time travel that humans can do.

Potential entices. Never delivers. Potential is a lie. You project yourself into the future and forget all about your past self. You are a bitch. You say ‘I was stupid before’ – you betray yourself. But can your future self betray your past self if the past one doesn’t exist anymore? Well excuse me, future me, I exist. It is you in a week that might not exist. You might die.

It washes over me like a tsunami.

I’m gonna die. oh Fuck. Fuck. I will not be here. No shh its ok we all go trough that. We all do. Its ok. Fuck. Its shit, its bad its bad its bad its bad bad bad bad ffffff oh f* I want to live. I want to live now. Am I living now? I am, am I? I am breathing. Please let me live. Please please please just some more. What do I have to do to live?

I need to make him want me. Simply because I will die. Otherwise my insanity will be wasted. I know it’s the right decision. I have no control over it – death has decided for me. I feel relieved. I breath out. The tension eases away from me so peacefully and effortlessly. Is this how taking the last breath feels like?

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Published on February 23, 2018