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psychoanalyticdiaries · 7 years ago

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I won’t let my past define me.

It all started with a choice —

9 years ago.

The decision had been made. The next (or the last) 30 days after were pure, utter silence. The world outside was its usual self, but the music was finishing its last chorus, the remaining flying confetti were settling on the ground, the noise along the streets were dying out. People were rushing, in then out, while I was stuck at the center of an intersection, amidst the traffic, amidst the blaring horns and flashing lights; there I was staring blankly into nothingness, going through the motions as I await the inevitable. There was dead silence inside. I was ready.

The days are gloom and the nights are the darkest. The memories, this feeling, are all too familiar. It's June all over again.

It was dreadful: having to count down the days, to prepare for the conduit to the afterlife, to question all of your existence and the world you have around you, and the realization and feeling of coming into terms that your whole purpose in this world was to leave it. It was in those moments when tears run freely down my cheeks and lyrically drain unto the ground. What was then madness and frightful fear to hike up to the mountains and set yourself at the tip of the cliff, was now calmness and resolve to jump off it. It still haunts me to this day. Anxieties, hypersensitivities, emotional turmoils - all in all a collusion of what was, what still remains, and the self-imposition of misery I constantly put myself.

No one knew, no one must. The mystery of such a departure is in itself an art, I thought to myself; for if the living are to have the luxury of knowing, if not left with the misery of who's to blame, then they will disdain and scorn before they'd mourn and forget. I won't give them that pleasure. I will disappear quietly and mysteriously into the night and let them pass judgements of things they largely know nothing about. It was all perfect drama worthy of an Oscar. It was a supposedly-perfect, laid-out plan – the schedules, apparatus, logistics and workarounds. There's no going back. For there's beauty in deliberate planning, like how this piece came to be, or the white picture that comes along with it (if only not in apparent conflict with another's), or the Batanes solo trip I had prior - all in anticipation of the flurry of emotions, of an epoch of what-could’ve-beens of what i did or had I not do it.

I needed to grasp myself. The more I toyed with the superficial game of make-believe, afraid of ever feeling vulnerable again, the more I realized i’m the one fooling myself. I’ve defaulted myself into hiding and lived a lie long enough to confuse facts with fantasies, cutesy narratives and fancy words of heart aches and relationship woes where in fact, it was only to hide from the truth, from the sad history I put myself in. It was then I knew that I have to accept myself first. I can't hide anymore.

Time had stopped. I trembled. Vibrated. Shivered at the immensity or possible repercussions of what was bound to happen.

I had a choice, a choice that should equally be afforded to everyone. The world will despise you for being a coward but such complexity is wholly misunderstood. To have the sole task of living our own life, one should be able decide on his own how to end it. I won't discourage it. But believe me when I say that no one likes to end their life because they want to die, they just found no reason to live. And if there’s indeed any reason left to, it's all but dampened with the far more excruciating pain and the impulsive thought of how to get rid of it. I won't discourage it, but this is where I beg and encourage everyone to be a little more kind and compassionate and maybe somehow, be that reason for someone to hold on and keep on going. All these years I've met several people who came close to ending it; many in discreet and in doubt, some far more sinister, a couple few so innocent and free-spirited you can barely tell, most had the firm resolve to just do it, but all of which shared the same common cry for help. I've seen countless people who chose to end their life and left people wondering why, like the likes of the Kate Spades, Marilyn Monroes, Van Goghs, Hemingways, Robin Williams, and the postings all around social media.

Listen, as no truer words has been spoken: The pleas and the cries are all there. Disregarded and shunned. The signs, the hints - they're all there. The world is just too blind to see, nay insensitive to even care. And yet, it's only astounding to see how the world acts in total shock and in grief beside the deathbed.

The only difference of me from them is - in the unlikeliest of circumstances, like an act of providence pulling the strings against an otherwise seamless plan - I survived.

How one readies in surety for such departure, and yet when it arrives, one instinctively acts in self-preservation is still a mystery. The days leading to the last was a remarkable piece of melancholic madness - whereas I lay there in quiet resolute, spending each passing day as any trivial many, there was rage and anguish inside that I couldn't bear to release. I wouldn't give anyone that burden. For to depart was enough to rid me of my grief. The silence persisted though I cannot tell for how long. In the dying days, I dared the world – "Stop me!," hoping that somehow any one might respond, that maybe I might find a reason not to do it. But no one did. The world is a cruel place, I said to myself time and again.

People have had us convinced that they're gonna be there for you, but they weren't. The devoted would so boldly proclaim to look up to the heavens and it will solve everything, there was nothing. The optimists would have us believing that there are always gonna be better days, they lie.

And so the day came. And it happened.

I could end this story at this point by detailing how I lived to tell the tale, of the proverbial camel and how the last straw broke its back came to be, for it is said that dead men tell none and their epitaphs often lie. But as to whether or not I am glad to have survived that night I cannot quite tell, for the usual suspects are always there to stay; but I know then after weeks in critical state, I realized that I was wrong. Dead wrong.

It's been a long time since. And it's remarkable how I can still play out everything that had happened, how I can still feel the emotions, those inner voices creeping in. This month will always remind me of it. Remarkable, as it is dreadful, to live through all of it. Life since then has been fraught with peaks and troughs. I've long mastered how to blend in. I've learned how to act normal like anybody else, to pretend I'm ok when I'm not. For while I can say I am the same as That Boy Who Lived, I too bear the scars of my past mistakes.

It was never the same. My young self would so much question the possibility of such predicament I'm in now. For how can one even live without a stomach, let alone pretend that there is? It's a wonder of science as it is a curse to be in such situation. I've had to live with the complications as if theyre not there. Living against all odds - to be forever scarred, to force yourself to live normally and expected to be treated just the same like everyone else, to work in a job where I'm not physically fit for (I've always been the stubborn one) yet continually push myself beyond my limits, driven by passion alone – it's definitely not that easy.

What's easy is to feel defeated and wallow in the misery I put myself in.

Life is but defined by the choices we make. But no matter the consequences of it, I've realized that I'm blessed with a loving family and friends, something I never saw prior. I've had the pleasure of meeting 3 beautiful souls along the way. Souls that had me convinced that life is truly a splendid thing, if not only for the foreboding conclusion that I can't ever be with them. Stubborn as I am to try. The first, I learned how to be strong and face the world without fear. The second was the time I learned how to love again and felt even more loved in return. The recent one was when I came into terms with the metaphysics; It was with her that I gained wisdom, having realized things that were only abstract in my head.

For too long I've lived with the constant regret of my decision back then only to realize that life is indeed a series of it. That we can't undo it, doesn't mean we can't rise above it and start anew.

Life can be shit; there's always the sadness and all sorts of problems. We can always revere in the darkness; the inner demons will always be there hiding. Things may not be working for us, and we can all bask on how miserable our lives are. We always have that choice: to be bitter and proclaim to the world, 'oh, woe is me!' and let it ruin our day. But the best thing is? We also have the choice to be better and see it an entirely different perspective. The sun rises beautifully every day, the river never fails to flow to the ocean, such is the constant undulation of life. We sometimes let our sorrows get the best of us, forgetting that there are far more beautiful things around us.

The world is what it is, but how we react to it is always our choice – what its gonna be, who are you gonna be, how are you gonna do it. It starts with accepting ourselves. This is me. Imperfect, scarred, and physically compromised. Sometimes it's only just about looking at things on a different perspective, and this time —

I choose to be better and see the light and the hope that lies ahead.

#suicidestory suicide acceptance

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