Why did I write my poems a certain way? Could I have written it better? But the feeling is over. Did I make the right choices with the words? Time is passing by. Feelings of anxiety and dread. Sometimes I am distressed by the fact that I exist that causes me to doubt whether I really do exist. In the end, I will die and every second that passes is one less moment that I have to live. I am not afraid of dying. I am simply afraid of not living. And not making the right choices. And not making the most out of my time.
It’s hard to write when you want to kill yourself. It’s hard to write when every thought that pops out of your head is a trigger and all you want to do is to focus on the subject that you’re writing but all you can think of is the feeling that everything you’re experiencing is make-believe. It’s hard to write with everything going on inside my head, but I still write because it’s the only thing that gives my existence purpose and without purpose, I would rather die.
So here I am still fighting despite it all. I am living with my darkness. I see it everywhere. I see it in the number eight. I hear it in ticking clocks, and I’m reminded that I have a million things to do. I should be in college, but I’m too mentally unstable for it at the moment. I should be working on my next book. I should be writing another poem or article. I should be with friends, but I don’t have friends. I should’ve done everything, but it’s hard to function when you feel nothing. So I do nothing as time flies without me. And where does she go? Where does she take my life as she gently takes it away from my fingers? I want to feel in control, but I feel powerless. I want the ruminations to stop but there are infinite realities out there that are unfolding simultaneously with ours, and I’m afraid to create one that’s worth fighting for.
Sometimes I feel like a hopeless case. Sometimes I feel so alone. It’s in this times of loneliness that the darkness totally consumes me. It is when we suffer alone that we truly suffer. I don’t understand myself at all because there are days when I feel so down, and there are days when I feel so alive. I’m a walking contradiction. If I can’t understand myself then who can? The next thing that is better to being understood is being loved. And I believe that even if we can’t love ourselves, we can still be loved by someone who we can trust our darkness with. And I am hopeful that someday someone would come along and make my life so much easier to live.
I don’t know how to end this post or whatever you may call it. I am neither good at ending things or starting things. I am only good at staying alive and living with my darkness because if I don’t then, I will suffer. I am just in pain and pain is inevitable just as healing is and one day things would get better because they have to be.
Thank you so much, everyone, who purchased a copy of my debut poetry collection Confessions of a Wallflower. It may not seem much compared to how many books other self-published authors sell, but for me, this is a sign from the stars that this book is a self-fulfilled success. This may be the dawn, the seed to potential future prosperities as a young author. From the deepest, darkest and most troubled parts of my soul, I am grateful to everyone who keeps on supporting me both as a writer and as a fellow human being. I just want you to know that I love you, my precious reader, because my journey into the literary world has helped me with my inner everyday struggle against anxiety and depression.
I know that sometimes I write really dark stuff, but I am really recovering from my mental illness. I’m on my way to a better place with all the techniques that I’ve learned in therapy such as mindfulness, socializing and getting out of the house and through the sheer belief that I will get better. I haven’t been suicidal for a few months now, and I believe that it does get better because there’s always hope no matter how dark life gets sometimes.
I’m going to self-publish another book of prose and poetry next year, and it will be about my dark experiences with obsessive-compulsive disorder, suicidal thoughts and self-destructive habits that caused me a great deal of anxiety. It will also be about my experiences in falling in and out of love with a girl who also experienced a great deal of anxiety. Finally, it will be about my continuous journey to healing, recovery and finding the meaning of existence through my own philosophies.
Thank you for taking the time to read, and I hope you have a lovely day. 🌷 I wish you hope, love, and healing. ✨
The boy who cries wolf,
Juansen Dizon ✿
Last year I was going through some really rough time. It was one of the worst suicidal moments in my life. I lost my sense of self. I was confused on who I really am as a person. I was just really lost and very depressed. I was vomiting, and I wasn’t eating because of all the anxiety that I was feeling. I was about to end it all by swallowing lots of paracetamol tablets, but I didn’t despite feeling like there was no end to the pain that I was feeling.
What saved me was the thought that I can still express all my pain through poetry. And two books actually saved my life. It’s Kind of a Funny Story & All The Bright Places. Both novels inspired me to keep on living despite being suicidal and to share my story and my ideas when it comes to depression, self-love and healing on my debut poetry collection Confessions of a Wallflower.
What also saved me was being with my family. That’s when I realized that there’s no greater anti-depressant than human love and connection. And that I am loved and that I will be missed if ever I did the act of suicide.
Thankfully I survived, and I am empowered to say that I am a suicide survivor.
I like to close my eyes sometimes and dream of the future.
I wake up one day, and I am mentally healthy. That I have won my battle against my mental illness. That things don’t bother me that much anymore. Like the butterfly effect, passing time, the number eight and thinking that I’m make-believe.
I wake up one day, and I just do the things that I do. I write the books that I want to write. I post the blog posts that I want to post. I run regularly under the deep blue sky while the sun shines on me like I am a flower that has survived wilting.
I wake up one day, and I’m just happy because I am healed, and I am living like it means something. I wake up one day, and I don’t even think about killing myself because life is full of possibilities that don’t scare me because every path in life is the right path. And if alternate realities exist then so what? That won’t stop me from trying to live this prime existence of mine fully.
I like to close my eyes sometimes and dream of the future. I like to open them not without a sense melancholy that I will eventually get better.
Cheeseburger or double cheeseburger? Coke or Pepsi? To travel Asia or Europe? To marry or not to marry? To have kids or not to have kids? To have a dog or not to have a dog? To exercise or not to exercise? To choose the career that I love or money? To read a book or not to read a book? To love myself or not to love myself? To rent a house or to buy a house? To quit or not to quit? To smile or not to smile? To be kind or to be right? To learn the guitar or the piano? Each choice feels like opening another reality. Each choice feels like opening another door. What the fuck is the difference with all of these choices? How do we know if we’re still in control of who we really are as a person with free will when in an alternate reality we’ve made the exact opposite choice of what we did. How can we make the perfect choice to have more control and be the best versions of ourselves?