I felt a little bugged by one post I saw in between my social media timeline last night. It was from one of my friend who I used to work with.
He said that having suicidal thought is stupid. Like, if someone have balls to die, instead of posting on social media about how they feel and being like a drama queen, they should have just killed themselves already.
Before I go, please understand that I believe everyone is entitled to their own opinion. But there’s a thin line between being opinionated and being a plain ass. To put it in even milder tone, the point I want to deliver here is that you absolutely have no right to mindlessly judge people without ever walk on their shoes. You don’t have any rights to bash or diss or roast people just because you have different value or perspective, just because they seem overreacted, or because they do not seem ‘normal’ without even knowing what’s going on in their life.
You may question. But you don’t have any rights to judge.
Okay. So, here’s the thing.
I have to admit that since I was a little girl, I have been struggling with negative and destructive thoughts. I never knew where it came from, it just popped out of the blue without any notice. And even until now, I have no idea how to overcome it so I tend to appear as this serious, stiff, upset, stressed, angry ugly bitch all the time.
I fully realize that I was not a very cheerful normal happy girl when I was a kid. I was easily frustrated, angered, bugged, irritated, I rarely feel excited or happy, I was overly selective in choosing friends, and I spent most of my time alone. Mostly with books. It’s not that I didn’t want to have friends. I wanted to laugh, to be happy, to play like other normal kids. But I always came to some impression that those kids do not like me very much.
So that’s that. I felt that they hate me. Oh, no not only them. Maybe my family. My parents. My brother and sister. My co-workers. Even until now, I always think that I am just this hateable, disgusting, unagreeable bitch that everyone hates.
It’s like, no matter how good I behave, how hard I try, how nice I treat them, I never felt like they like me so much. Here’s why I assume it that way:
One, they rarely involve me in their casual-social occations.
Two, I am never their first choice.
Three, it seems that they have a little less fun everytime I was around
Maybe there’s something wrong about me. Maybe I am lame. Or too serious. Or easily triggered. Or selfish. Or stubborn. I don’t know. I have been trying to change. I have been trying to reduce my stuborness and be more laid back, but it came out like I am stupid and indesicive. I did want to be more carefree, cool, and less lame, but it came out like I’m ingenuine. Like I’m faking it. I have been trying to go out more, have some lunch with them, go shopping, or just chat over some coffee, but I still feel uninvolved and not expected to be there at all. They hang out by themselves and I am not one of them. Like, ever.
Is it my vibe? My wrong chemical reaction? What? Do I smell like garbage? Or my face disgust them somehow? I don’t know. I don’t even know what it takes to be more accepted. Heck, I don’t even know how to accept myself. Now I have to think about getting myself more normal. More agreeable. More acceptable to some people.
So after some time, I’ve become exhausted.
As I grew up, it does not get better with time or what you call maturity. Instead, it gets worse. When I was in junior high, my negativity only came accross wanting to change my face or having a plastic surgery. But at this point in my twentysomething, it becomes destructive. I refuse to acknowledge my small-daily achievements or blessings. I constantly compare myself to other people, like why in my 25 birthday I haven’t been able to acquire all things I wrote down as my targets years ago and how other people are lucky enough to be given opportunity for that. Being away from home, I think that even my mother do not even give a shit about me anymore, because now she’s led a new happy life with her new husband. So I wont disturb it. Still damaged from my recent heartbreak, I never stop living myself up to that certain someone’s standards, which makes me feel like a bunch of trash.
I tracked everything to find the root cause of my failure in every aspect of life, and I found out that the biggest cause of it is myself.
This disgusting, uncaring, selfish, stubborn, envious, arrogant bitch who failed to change herself no matter how hard she tries.
My mom always says that I have to change. By that I know she does not refer to my determinations or hard work, of course. She wants me to change my character. To change every way I am.
I know I am not her favorite daughter. Maybe she regrets raising me to this point because I did not turn out to be her dream daughter who is obedient, praying and reciting quran everyday, pretty like a fairy, nice to people, likes to buy nice clothes, or have fun. She might regret that I grew up into this ticking time bomb. This ball of fire who is just simply untouchable, let alone controllable. I know very well she regrets it.
So reasonably, if your mother is dissappointed in you like right deep into your bone, to your very essence, what makes you think that other people would love you?
It’s not like I haven’t tried to fit in. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed and exhausted. Sometimes I say fuck it and just let everything pass. But it’s never easy. It’s hard to pretend to not know of that. I have been fully aware that people make plans with their own circle that does not involve me. I have noticed that I am never anyone first choice to talk to or to have fun with. I have been always this disposable loser who is not needed, not liked, and would never be able to blend in.
I am aware that I am invisible. That I never even exists.
So what’s the point of living like you are a forgettable piece of garbage who fades away slowly from everyone’s memory into thin air?
Seriously, what’s the point?
It would be different if, let’s say, I am loved or needed by someone or some people. But well, let’s face it, I’m not. And I don’t know how to change that because the very essence of myself does not comply or suitable to be loved. It’s like a rejected product. Unfixable. Why bother use it? Why don’t you just destroy it already?
And that’s when the suicidal thoughts kick in.
As for me, suicide is not as simple as being heartbroken and sad and then swallowing 30 sleeping pills to overdose yourself or something. Suicide is an attempt to escape from the pain of being unable to live the life that’s worth living. An attempt to escape the emptiness of being rejected, unwanted, unloved. An attempt to escape the loneliness. Escape from the cruel-bitter certainty that you are nothing and do not matter to anybody.
And at that point, I didn’t expect any drama or attention. I did not even think about cutting my wrist or hanging myself. Sometimes I just whisper to myself, like when I walk on the street, it would be nice if a cop freak out and shoot everyone, and I got shot right in my head and die. Or it’d be nice to just got a heart attack and end everything. Or just go to sleep and never wake up anymore.
How nice it would be. Just to end playing the game.
It gets worse these last few months. I don’t even know whether I am actually bipolar and in need of actual medical treatment, or I am clinically depressed and need some medications either way. One thing I know for sure is that, during these periods, everytime I smile or laugh, I almost certain I fake it. Sometimes because I go to work everyday so I have to push myself too hard to look normal ‘till I can’t even feel my face anyomore. Most of the time I got overwhelmed because I take too many responsibilities, but it’s better because getting highly occupied helps to distract these depressing death or suicidal thoughts. But then I got a horrible migraine and joint pain everytime I got home. Every morning, I always feel so freaking tired and drained all I want to do is to curl on my bed and never ever get up anymore.
I feel exhausted to go through that everyday, over and over again.
Even praying doesn’t help. So I have given up on that because I cannot find any connection or even just a little bit of peaceful feeling in that any longer.
I don’t know if this is appropriate of not. But the only one thing that keeps me away from really commiting suicide is that I don’t wanna be remembered as that pathetic girl whose life so messed up she chose to give up and shot herself right between the eyes.
That’s it. Nothing more or less.
Well maybe considering how my mother whould feel (especially the shame, gosh, I don’t have a heart to give her another shame after I am already a huge shame by just being me), how would that hurt my friends (I’m not sure tho, I guess since I am easily replaceable, I would be effortlessly forgotten), or the fact that I’m not sure yet what would happen to me after I die, I still have no enough courage to actually do it. To actually pull the trigger and stop all these misery already.
I do want to die. But it doesn’t necessarily have to be from suicide.
Imagine struggling with it everyday. Especially when you are alone. Especially when you don’t have anyone to talk to. Or you do have, but you don’t think they would understand.
Imagine keeping yourself right on track when all you want to do is jump in front of the running train and get your body smashed into pieces.
Imagine forcing yourself to jump out of your bed, taking showers, and work with full responsibility as if your life is normal and you don’t have a huge pile of dark matter inside your head that tells you to grab that knife in the kitchen and just get over with it.
Imagine smiling and chatting like there’s no problem while you’re screaming ‘shut the fuck up!’ inside your brain just because there’s too much voices telling you how ugly, disgusting, unworthy, undeserved, and unwanted you are, all the time.
Before I struggle with these destructive thoughts, I always consider suicide as a cowardy. Only losers do that. Only people with low resistance and no durability do that.
But it’s not that simple. Suicidal people have their own reasons to not shot themselves yet, to keep struggling and maybe hopefully heal themselves in the long run. If they are not dead yet, or instead just posting or writing status about their dark thoughts, it’s not because they just want your attention or mind-numbingly want to appear dramatic. In most cases, including mine, they still have active reasoning to keep it together, especially on how that would probably affect other people (if there is).
They just need some way to release their pain. To accept and deal with it. And sometimes writing or posting things about that can make them feel better.
After putting myself in those suicidal people shoes, I think as long as you put some reason and logic in it, both keep on living or hanging yourself to death are still considered acceptable decision. I start to consider that people who commit suicide are brave enough to put an end to their suffering. They have balls to pull the trigger and respect themselves enough to not get hurt for unecessary reason anymore. Especially if there’s literally nobody who relies on them or they can rely on at all. Meanwhile, suicidal people who keeps on living deserve the same respect. Especially if they still manage to be the best version of themselves in spite of unrelenting whisper that they should just put a gun in their mouth and pull the trigger ‘till their heads blow up.
Suicide and suicidal thought is not a joke. It’s not an empty threat or an immature attempt to seek attention.
When you have nothing, all you’re gonna get is failed attemt with scars on your wrist or just getting your stomach pumped to let the pills out. And then maybe some mockery from this fucking cruel society. But when you are capable, it’s not gonna be just a tweet or facebook status. It’s gonna be a purchase to one Revolver and one official signed will. And maybe a breaking news in the paper tomorrow morning.
Suicide is not something to laugh at or to be frowned upon.
In some cases it requires help.
But in some others it just needs acceptance.
