“Isn’t it kinda ironic,” he said with a sneer as he steered
his ugly green sports car through city traffic, “a psychology major having mental health problems herself.”
I didn’t
dignify the statement with a response and stared blankly ahead, stubbornly
blinking back tears and wishing I had not told him that I’d been finding life
meaningless.
Suicide.
I tend to
think everyone at some point considers it. But then it’s one of those things I
can’t actually go around checking with others to prove it right, right? Talk
about awkward conversational moments.
The first
time I wanted to end my life, I was in primary school and no more than 10 years
old. I find it incredulous now when I look back on it, but it was over Chinese
classes. Yes, that’s all it was. Something so seemingly insignificant caused a
little girl to want to choose death.
I didn’t
have a plan set out (my brain probably wasn’t even well-developed enough then
to formulate one anyways! Hoho) but I remember shutting my blinds, sitting cross-legged
on the parquet floor, my scrawny little body shaking with sobs as I penned a
goodbye letter to the world.
Can you
imagine the headlines? Girl dies from
fear of learning Chinese. *Palmface*
I never
finished the letter and crumpled it up before curling into a ball myself.
Sometimes I
wonder…if I back then, with not much pressure from my parents, already felt so
cornered that I contemplated suicide, how much harder students these days must have
it with school.
Fast
forward 14 years to the second time I saw no value in my life.
I was 8
months into an emotionally abusive relationship, clinging on only because
everyone said how good I was for him. Ooh ok, and also maybe slightly because he was over 6ft tall,
with broad shoulders, blond hair, blue eyes, and a wicked smile. So he
was cute. But it was largely the savior complex in me, loving that I was making
him a better man.
We were
from vastly different backgrounds and people often would ask him, “why is a
girl like that with a guy like you?” And they asked this not even knowing the
ugly side of our relationship. Like the time we had an argument and he drove recklessly
in his sports car screaming that he’d crash it with me inside, or the time he
rounded up his mates with baseball bats to hunt down the male friend who’d
driven over at 3am to come get me after a particularly bad night. I have a
whole bag of other terrible stories like that, each more shocking than the
next. But I’d talk him through all these outbursts and we slowly made small but
significant changes in his life.
It was all
at my own expense though and the more I gave to him, the more I lost myself. I
reached a low where I felt like an empty shell. I didn’t know who I was
anymore, and I was so extremely tired. I believed I was worthless.
Like the
little girl all those years ago, I sat cross-legged on another parquet floor, hot
tears streaming down my face. I looked up at him as he walked into the room,
rubbing a towel through his hair, and I told him how I was feeling, about the
desperate emptiness before me.
"I feel like I want to die..."
He stared
at me for a second then coldly informed me, “pack
your bags, I’m taking you home.”
And that’s
where we get to that moment in his car, being mocked for being a psych grad
who’s messed up in the head. It was in that moment that the steely
determination to get past this set in and I embarked on different journeys to
heal and to create purpose in my life. It ranged from something as simple as
riding my bike out to have tea with a girlfriend who I’d neglected since I got
into that relationship, to flying halfway around the world with a backpack for
6 months.
The change
doesn’t come about overnight. It’s taken (and still is taking) a concerted
effort on my part to make my life worth living.
I have a
tattoo that says “Live and die this way”,
lines from my favourite Tracy Chapman song. Interestingly, I rightfully should
associate that song with him and his “Fast Car” since we used to blast the song and sing
loudly along to it while the scenery rushed by in a blur. Also, in the song, those words
have a negative meaning for the protagonist. Yet for some strange, wonderful
reason, I always chose the alternative interpretation of - it is up to me to
live my life in such a way that if I die today, I’m proud to have lived and
died in this way.
I will not
let external things (eg. my studies) or people (eg. my ex) result in the
conclusion of my life. This is my story, I’m worth more than that ending.
When
depressed, it’s easy to feel disconnected with humanity, to wallow in the
self-sabotaging conviction that no one else knows how you feel, that your agony
is incurable. Perhaps next time, if it helps, remember me – the girl who’s
supposed to have a good head on her shoulders, who’s a psychology graduate, who
also isn’t immune from suicidal thoughts. Then look around at the people to
your left and to your right, and consider that they are probably struggling
with deep, painful issues as well.
I hope that
at the very least, you will feel less alone.