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Monday, August 29, 2016

Suicidal Sunday

Last Sunday I woke up feeling I want to kill myself. It wasn't just a "bad morning" or "depressed", it wasn't "I need coffee and whiskey in the same mug" or "Chips and Ice cream and pajamas" kind of day. It was a full-blown if-I-had-some-sleeping-pills-I-will-overdose-myself. It was "I can't see the light at the end of the tunnel". It was "Why am I still here? Why am I still alive?".  It was "I don't want to be here anymore". 

It sucks and it took me by surprise. It took everyone by surprise. Just the other morning I happily chatted with my mom over video call. I had a really long and delicious nap. I got laid and it was totally awesome. We played board game all afternoon and well into the evening. Everyone was so much fun to hang out with. I had sushi, which I had been craving for since two-three weeks ago. And ice cream too, Ben and Jerry's Americone. It was a simple yet blissful day. The food was great, the companion was impeccable, and everything went right. Yet the next morning I want to kill myself.

Crisis was averted by my friend, who amazingly managed to keep her calm when I called her midnight Indonesia time and told her sobbingly I want to kill myself. She didn't offer consolation or kind yet empty words, just this acknowledgement: "You are tired. You are overwhelmed. That doesn't make you weak or a bad person." She was right. I was a mess. That doesn't make me a bad person. But I still hate myself. I still want all of this to end. I hate myself for allowing myself to be such a mess. I hate that I miss my stepkids and my cats so very badly. I hate myself for being lonely at night. I hate myself for not achieving more. I hate myself for spending 4 hours commute time each day only staring at the road or on my phone instead of focus on my writing. I hate that I disappoint myself at work. I hate being scared that I financially can't afford to live here. I hate this person whom I have become and I want her gone with all her sadness and fear and uselessness, I want her gone. 

Hidden beneath the fancy word "divorce" was a huge tangle of thorny mess. All aspects of your life was thrown in it, and you'll find yourself bruised and bleeding trying to overcome all those mess: paying up taxes and apartments and other bills now that you are in separate way, adjusting with the sudden loss of friends and family members which whom inevitably took side, figuring out a way to live by yourself since you've been together with the other person since God knows when. Divorce is not only he/she got what. It is the destruction of a relationship, of a good portion (if not all) of your life. The actual reason for the divorce might be the Kraken who was awaken and completely annihilate your island till there was no return, but divorce would be the surviving people who caught you off guard and not only robbed you and stripped you off all your things – valuable or not, but also rape you and beat you and left you there to die. In another word, you are fucked.

I have been f*cked big time. This was not how I imagined myself to be when I arrived from Indonesia, a bright-eyed woman full of hope, with my pretty newly-made wedding dress in my small suitcase. I know life was hard, but I hardly expect myself to be in this position. I am tired and overwhelmed, and rightly so. I have been betrayed. I lost everything that is dear to me. I had to start everything from zero, without close friends or family to help me. I can't get help because I don't know if I can afford it or not, and I can't deal with the long waiting time. Often times all I need is a hug, but since I only know a handful of people here that was a luxury that I can't afford as well. I already spent almost all of my sick days + paid leave for those days when I just can't. I was taken here under the pretext of love and such, and now I have to live by myself, maneuvering life with my meager 1 year of professional work experience. I closed my eyes and I will recall the horrid moments when he decided to choose the other woman over me (and still kept her despite his request for reconciliation and marriage counselling), I opened my eyes and I will see all the mess that he put me in.

Of course, I could go home. It is always an option. But even there I will still be tired and overwhelmed. Restarting my life after 4 years of absence is not a small feat. The questions, the curious gossip, the work search, I still have to deal with that and more. Which makes me feel so angry and so tired. Either way, I am f*cked. And yes, I still have to live with the emotional scars he has given me. The insecurity has been etched so deep into me that often times my boyfriend would notice the panic look in my eyes, no matter how subtle it was. I would be happy and full of laughter, witty and flirty; but the next day I will be reduce to this grotesque being full of fear and sadness. I can't live like this. I don't want to spend every day reliving the horror in my heart, the insecurity and the fear and the loathsome for myself that he has planted in me. I don't want to burden people with my psychotic episodes and useless lamentation. I can't live like this. 

When an extraordinary event of sadness happens, everyone will be hand in hand going to the rescue. Natural disasters, tragic accident, the loss of your loved ones, there will be people that will help you in a jiffy. But after that you are on your own. Even as the house has been rebuilt after the disaster, the person who stays in the house still has to adjust with the new house and deal with the feeling that it is not his/her old house. "You can do it," we say. "You need to move on with your life," we claimed. Other times we just don't have time for them anymore. The crisis has been averted, has it not? The huge crisis, yes; but throughout the healing process there would be tons of mini crisis that just adds up until you just can't take it anymore. Until you want it to end as quickly as possible, come what may the consequences is. Just because a person looks happy and content, that doesn't mean they are free from their demon. I learn this the hard way.

That Sunday morning made me realize how vulnerable I am still. That despite me acting out all independent and cool, I am still battered and broken inside. And it is fine. It is ok to be sad. It is ok to be hurt. It is ok to be tired. Most importantly, it is ok to seek help or at the very least to be honest with myself. I am not well, but instead of forcing myself to feel well and "You're stronger than this!", I should have giving myself a hug and telling myself "Gotcha. It's ok." It is not being weak, it is appreciating myself and what I've been through. I have trudged along thinking it would be the best, because I really don't want to be seen as weak or, heaven forbid, a burden for my friends and family. I was so wrong. I need their help. Yes, I will be repetitive and boring as hell, I will tell you every little thing that would make you rolled your eyes and think, "This again?", but guess what? You will understand. Because you know me and you know I won't ask your help if I don't need it so very badly. And I should believe in you, and in myself. 

The first step to healing in mental illness is acknowledging you have a problem. I need to acknowledge that. I also need to believe it is fixable. That I am not defined by the horror and the pain that broods in me. That I am not defined by demeaning words he said to me. That I am something, that I am good enough that people actually care and wanted to help me. Believing all of these are not easy. Not at all. But I have to do it. I want to be free from fear and anguish, I want to live a life of gaiety. I want to, as Spock would say it, "Live long and prosper." Despite my demons, I have thoroughly enjoyed the life I have right now. The world is my oyster and I'll take it as a shot with damn good Bloody Mary. And no, I don't want to kill myself. Not anymore. Not anymore.

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