February 22, 2019. I was ready to give up everything and kill myself.
It wasn't like a snap where one morning I woke up and just wanted to end it all. No, it was a slow build-up—like a wound that was slowly festering.
I couldn't remember how it began, how the ominous feeling started clouding over me. All I know was that I began to lose interest in everything. Lying became my escape.
People who've known me for years might be surprised while reading this: I ran away from home once, pretending I was attending a seminar in Manila. It was a few days before my parents realized what I did, but I couldn't tell them the reason why I did it.
But now I can tell you why: I felt suffocated. I was a girl who had a heavy weight on her shoulders. As someone who grew up reaping golds and achievements, everyone's expectations were on me. I had to keep the good image of my father who was a public servant and my mother who was a teacher.
I couldn't afford to make a mistake.
But I did. I made mistakes—too many, in fact—that I didn't know how to tell my family that I screwed up for fear of being disowned. I didn't know how to tell them that their honor student daughter had intentionally failed her course-related units out of rebellion. I didn't know how to tell them that my graduation will be delayed.
The treacherous path that I've started on did not end there.
Chances after chances burned away with every wrong choice I made. I put up a strong facade and made everyone believe that my life was perfect, that there was no pain behind my smiles. How could I show weakness when everyone expected me to be the strong-willed woman I once was?
It was a slow descent to hell.
I didn't know who to turn to—I didn't know anyone else facing the demons I fight every night. This went on for years and the darkness inside me slowly consumed every part of my soul.
Then came the final straw.
My parents were expecting me—again—to graduate by March 2019 and they thought that I was busy attending the review in preparation for the Licensure Examination for Teachers on September. Little did they know, my name was not on the list of candidates for graduation and instead of going to the review center, I spent my weekend in the local parish and coffee shops.
All I had with me was my notebook where I jotted everything down, one of which was my self-harm confession. It was hard not to cry in the middle of the holy mass, the drowning feeling of helplessness gnawing at me slowly like a worm. Little by little, I became known as the ghost girl who walked quietly in the streets—blank faced, hazy gaze, aimlessly drifting in the shadows of the twilight.
I began to withdraw into a shell. I could no longer keep up the image that I painted for the whole world to see. Writing no longer filled the void inside me. Meeting up with friends began to feel like a burden. Everything seemed to slow down to a halt as I struggled to find a way out of the hole I buried myself in.
Unconsciously, my browser history became riddled with Google queries such as, "The Easiest Way to Die", "How to Commit Suicide", "How to Kill Myself" and other articles that fed my self-destructive tendencies. I also began to carry razor blades in my wallet.
My skin began to bleed every time I get the urge to cut. It would happen anywhere—I have cut my skin in the fitting cubicle of a mall or in the bathroom stall of a fastfood chain. I turned to this pain instead of facing my own.
Then came the morning of February 22, 2019. I woke up and suddenly burst out crying. I took the razor blade from my wallet and prepared to cut my wrist when my mother came in my room and confronted me about my delayed graduation.
It was too much. I had to get out of the house and leave before I became too impulsive and end everything right then and there.
That's when I decided to seek professional help. One of my friends, Marc Angelo Martinez, agreed to go with me. I will be forever grateful to him for being with me during one of my lowest moments. We went to a clinic in Ramon and the psychologist confirmed my suspicions—she diagnosed me with severe depression.
I was absolutely devastated.
When my friend and I separated in the afternoon and I was once again left with my own thoughts, I realized I couldn't go home and tell my family about my situation. I thought about how it could ruin my parents' image when people found out that their daughter had a mental condition. I thought about what my siblings will think of me. I thought about the discrimination I would experience because society compares depression to that of lunacy and attention-seeking.
As I walked across the busy streets of the city market, the sun setting low in the skyline, I slowly came to a decision: I will kill myself.
I went inside a fastfood chain to write my suicide note.
When I finished it, I sent a little prayer towards the sky. For the first time in my life, I prayed hard and asked God to give me a sign before everything was too late. Desperate for a flicker of hope, a strange force pulled me to the direction of St. James Parish. I didn't know what came over me to want to find shelter inside the church.
While the evening Eucharistic celebration was going on, I sat there at the back row, crying silently, throwing myself at the mercy of One whom I had forgotten for a long time. Brimming with tears, I looked upon the cross and let everything go.
I talked to God. I asked for His help. I asked Him to save me.
Then the miracle happened.
The priest who was giving his homily to the congregation suddenly said, "Your life is not yours to take."
Those words opened my eyes. I immediately knew it was God talking to me, telling me to stop whatever I planned on doing.
That's when I knew: God listens to everyone. He looks out for us even when we lose our way. He patiently waits for us to talk to Him because He will always answer.
God restored my faith. He saved my life.
I went home after that. I opened my depression to my family and they did everything they can to help me get out of that dark place. Step by step, I began to recover.
I created distractions so my mind would not dwell on my inner demons. Four months since my diagnosis, I became an English teacher and I got my Bachelor degree a month after. I also became a published author and a speaker for journalism trainings and workshops.
More than a year has passed since that fateful day. I'm writing this with a smile on my face knowing that God continues to bless me with His Grace, knowing that my story is a testament to God's never-ending love for us.
Whoever's out there, if you are battling against depression, I want you to know that you are not alone. It may be hard to see daylight for now, it might feel like everything is falling apart—seek the voice within you. God is listening.
All you have to do is reach out. Let Him save you.
I know, because He saved me too.
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