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.
I exert considerable effort now to keep my depression distant like how the sun is to the moon. I practice mindfulness now, and I am aware whenever I feel de-energized, depressed and anxious. I just observe these feelings and tell myself that it’s just my mental illness and I should never confuse my biology with my true self. And I am a smart, creative and loving person who just happens to have a chemical imbalance in the brain. I love writing poetry. I love spending time with my family. I love going to the beach. These are the things that make me who I am. Love is the reason why I get out of bed in the morning. Love is the reason why I have this strong commitment to recovering from being suicidal, isolated and self-destructive. Love is the reason why I have this strong desire to change my life for the better. I jog at least half an hour a day because releasing endorphins is just freaking great. I forgive myself now for the little things. Even my father. I have a haircut once every two weeks because I notice that when I look in the mirror and feel handsome—my whole being feels lovely. I text my best friend. I tell him that I’m still fighting my depression. I tell him that I’m doing okay. I eat healthy foods, and I have a schedule every day for my life, and I’m fucking accomplishing things. I’m going out of the house more often now. I’m not that afraid anymore. I’m really making progress. I’m free from the four corners of my dark room and realize that it doesn’t have to be my prison anymore. I can simply choose to go outside and smell the yellow flowers and tell them that I love them. Because I am growing like them. Because I am beautiful like them. And I am grateful for my struggle because it has taught me that I am more resilient than I think. I listen to a song, and I just keep on hoping that things will get better because I am working on it every single day to choose the things that are best for my healing. And let myself be enough.
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.
It’s okay if there are days in your life when all you can handle to do is take a shower, play video games and watch films. It also happens to me sometimes when life gets too much. I just leave all the dishes in the sink and leave the flowers outside my garden unwatered hoping that it will just rain.
It’s okay if there are mornings in your life when you just can’t get out of bed. Sometimes we need a day off from being strong. Sometimes we need to cry it all out to ourselves when all we have is ourselves to feel sorry for ourselves. And that’s not entirely wrong despite most of us being dead to self-pity because it reveals narcissism in its most primary form. Sometimes self-pity could be in fact the most important emotion to feel when it comes to being depressed because it tells us that life is in truth hard in so many ways. And yet it tells us that we are still lovely despite all of our imperfections and despite being misunderstood by so many people.
It’s okay if there are evenings in your life when you just want to end it all. Sometimes feeling suicidal is just a way that we cope with the realities of existence. Sometimes feeling suicidal for me is an escape when I see no light at the end of the tunnel because the thought of suicide sometimes is the only thing that gets me through bad days knowing that I can do it but not really do it. Sometimes feeling suicidal is just a way that I am because I am afraid to live because I do not have everything that I want and I am horribly limited.
It’s okay if there are times in your life when you just say “fuck it, I’m going to live despite everything that’s giving me every reason to die.”
It’s okay if you go through all of it alone.
It’s six o’ clock in the evening, and I’m thinking of her. How she heals me. How she makes me happy. How she makes me smile. How she makes me feel like life’s worth living.
There’s a setting sun landing on a leaf that reminds me of her. That reminds me of a love. A hope. A joy. A peace that I’ll be dying valiantly knowing that I have loved and made memories with this woman whom I greatly shared my sufferings with.
I couldn’t thank the universe enough for bringing this woman into my life. She was created to be kissed, loved, and given flowers every day. And that’s probably all I can do while I still have time.
It has been awhile since I spoke to a friend. I spend most days at home reading books. Just writing all my sorrows away. And it gets dull after awhile. Spending most of my time alone in the dark. Missing the feeling of what it’s like to have a social life.
But the sad thing is—I am anxious with the slightest social interaction because I feel like I’m ugly and awkward and boring. And I use thought as an excuse for me not to participate in life because I am afraid to live.
And the truth is—I want to die. But I am afraid of pain. And I use fear as an excuse to continue my existence because I am also afraid to die.
—Confessions of a Wallflower, page 63