Suicide is such a “tricky” thing. I should know. We did not choose to be born, life doesn’t come with a manual, and it is so hard, in general — to simply live. Getting out of it should be a choice. It should be. It’s not fair to impose living to someone who simply does not want to just be this … anymore. The thing is … Well …
It’s such a complex issue, isn’t it. I don’t know when it started for me. I was constantly drowning but not dying. On the outside I would seem normal, and calm, my old happy self, but I was rotting on the inside. I would try to wake myself up and drag me out of the hole, but there was no hole, just a void, just darkness. Even if there was something to hold on to, which part of my body would cling onto the ledge, or anything, I wonder … when I am nothing, when I am not even here. There was a time when I took a bread knife and cut myself in front of my then boyfriend back in College (then-boyfriend because he is now my Husband, lelz) all cos of an argument we had that made me so frustrated (which all began when he constantly walked out on me whenever we’d fight, and it riled me up, the frustration of wanting to resolve things without having to wait to let him, me, everything cool down, etc. It was the little things that made me find ways to express myself because words could no longer do them for me. Screaming, too. So it was like “oh look, now I’m bleeding, so will you take me and my pain seriously? Will you listen to me now?). It started because of the pettiest reasons, which later turned out to be an escape for me.
I feel the pain inside me but couldn’t validate it. You say all these words and people brush them aside or own them by saying “Oh, I’ve been there”, “Oh I went through that too”. Yes, okay. But I’m talking about me. You and I are different people. Trumping all over my feelings makes me feel invalidated. And you saying all these doesn’t make me feel less alone. It just makes me feel worse.
Cutting is cliché too, I know. Sucks to think that way considering how low one should feel to even stomach watching your own hand slice your skin open with a knife or a blade. My scars aren’t as visible, because I was afraid to cut so deep. I just wanted to feel the pain. I just wanted to feel the physical pain of what I feel on the inside. I hate that its cliché. It’s not.
Does that make sense?
There were several documentaries I saw of depressed people : Kurt Cobain’s, Amy Winehouse’s … I saw the intro of this documentary titled “The Bridge” that is etched in my brain for the rest of my life (a documentary on the Golden Gate Bridge and the people who jumped off of it). The camera pans through passerbys, the crossing cars, and then a man, probably in his mid 30’s, who didn’t look like he was in any state of panic, not anxious, not troubled. He seemed calm to me, before taking, what I didn’t know, was one last deep breath … and then he jumped. His descent was graceful, not much flailing of the arms. His hat flies out of his head, and less than 10 seconds later, he was out of the frame. You’d notice how the camera turns here and there, looking for him, but he was gone. It felt like I was watching that scene for hours, I didn’t even blink. I read that one of the survivors had one thought occurring to her the moment she jumped : she realized all her problems could be solved … except for the fact that she had, without hesitation, just jumped.
That gave me goosebumps.
On the other hand, I thought about this man who successfully did it, every single day, since I saw that part of the documentary (I couldn’t even bring myself to finish the whole thing because I wasn’t sure how I’d feel in the end). I would often blame the success of Kurt and Amy on their deaths, and how they were surrounded by probably the wrong people (but who am I to judge), who didn’t know, or was too scared to jump in with them, to, you know, get them out. Some people are beyond their saving point, a ticking time bomb – and it is always their choice whether they continue to fight or not. In some cases, it is not their fault for giving up. The world is cruel, and life is tiring (constantly tiring), constantly exhausting. Most of us are unaware of what our purpose in life is, and not everyone believes in God, or other higher deities to exist. That is also not their fault.
I honestly do not know whose fault it is. I know I am responsible for myself, so the only person I could actually point the finger at is … surprise — myself. There are things I allowed to get so far. I did not seek help. Or maybe I did, and no one came to my aid, or they did, but I did not accept it or was too stubborn. People are so careless with their actions. There are so many things many of us choose not to say out loud, but none of us are considerate enough to stop and think that our words and actions DOES affect people. We use our pain as an excuse to be mean. We are hurt so we take it out on people, people we don’t know, and sometimes … even people we love.
If you understand what I’m saying, I want you to know that I’m holding your hand right now. We are all consumed by a darkness that I’m unsure we’ll ever get ourselves out of. I’ve fought so hard and haven’t self-harmed in months, but I am back here again, despite my efforts. Maybe I don’t deserve to be happy. Maybe I’m not meant to live a happy, content life, because, why am I getting knocked down constantly? I can’t even explain it. Everyday I find reasons to smile, but you and I know how unfair life is. I am so sick of that word. Unfair. Whoever said the world was, anyway. I honestly can’t blame anyone who has found a painful but easy escape. But I wouldn’t want us to resort to that. Ending our pain is just passing it on to someone else. I know, right. How can we even think of someone else at this point? They don’t care.
I’ve told myself those three words over and over for so many years. I always thought that deep down, I knew they did. Just maybe not the way I want them to.
People say suicide is selfish. I refuse to think that when I think about doing it, probably for the most obvious reason. But if a Family Member does, I would think that it is. If you could bear to think about your Mother, Father, Sister, Brother, Cousin … Spouse … carrying on a life without you after you have taken it … then … I don’t know what to say to you. Nothing I say to you will make sense at this point.
I don’t know how I’m still here either. I’ve written so many letters. So many. Yet I just end up dysfunctional for a few days before I pick myself back up again. I allow myself the occasional downfall because sometimes, it’s all I need. I allow myself to want death, not suppress it. I used to watch the blood drip from my wrists and close my eyes. Now I twitch at the imaginary sight of a blade hitting my skin, its swift and flawless (and rather painful) edge. Thinking of it makes me sick. Maybe I’m cured. Maybe I should just figure out another way.
But I try not to go there.
… So what do we do then.
Some of us want to be helped but don’t know how, some of us want to talk about it but don’t know how. We fear people would be treating us differently, which is most likely the last thing we want (we already know that we are a danger to ourselves — please don’t treat us like we are a danger to you, too … yes, I’m talking to you, you functional human being).
It’s a funny and surreal thing, when you think of it. You hold a newborn baby, so frail and fragile, you think of all the universes that exist and will be born inside it, and then you realize of the many things that can harm it and destroy it, and how this being, once cradled in your arms, would someday slip away, right under your nose.
I got to thinking that we should probably just learn how to live in the dark. Maybe struggling is what makes us sink deeper. Acknowledging the pain is what helps me get by. It’s how I deal with my Mother’s death, even if it’s been 7 years since.
I started typing this entry on the 16th of April, weeks before I started watching 13 Reasons Why.
I may know what Hannah Baker felt, but at the same time, I also don’t. You and me, we may all have gone through the same things, but the way life cuts us up aren’t all the same. Our attackers may have the same knives, but they’re all made of different material, different edges, some cut deep, some cut sideways, you get the gist. Each painful experience is unique.
Just recently, I had one of the worst breakdowns of my existence. There are so many things piling up that I have not addressed, especially not to the concerned person, which makes it harder. One of my best and closest friends Muha flew in to Dubai a couple of weeks ago. He needed a breather, and at the same time, have been increasingly alarmed at my state whenever we catch up, saying I began to scare him with how serious I sounded. Maybe I’m just blessed to have that kind of support system. As much as I try to handle things by myself and push people away when they offer a hand, it’s the ones who push past all that and be there that matters. It doesn’t have to be anything grand, but I’m glad he did that.
After clubbing one night we headed to one of the open Restaurants at the Marina and stayed there until 4:00 AM, just talking about life. You know one of those scenes in the movies when two people are sitting opposite each other at the diner, those type of things. That conversation we had really helped me. Whatever he told me that night wasn’t new to me, but it was the fact that he was there, telling them to me to my face, it was the fact that this person actually came all this way just to make sure I make it (it was also so he could make it — he’s going through some pretty tough, grown-up stuff).
Okay, so, I won’t say I’m healed. That’s the thing. I don’t think Depression will ever leave me. But I’ll learn how to live with it. I’ll learn how to not let it control me. When I get weak, I’ll let myself fall apart. Like I said, it’s easier to pick up the pieces when there are actual pieces to pick up. Letting myself continuously die on the inside would make it harder for me to recover. When it gets too much, I’ll take a break. I’ll stay in bed all day, I’ll punch a wall (with my boxing gloves on, which was one of the things I recently did when I had the intense urge to self harm … and worse). I am getting by. God has given me the strength to.
I hope my mere existence, writing this entry would also give you the strength to.