Suicide and I.

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Disclaimer: The photo is one from 4 years ago shared purely for the purpose of rationalizing internally as to where I was and where I am.

Suicide was my escape — 

the dream destination that I mulled over, each time my mind tricked me in to feeling like the world was closing in on me.

Suicide was my first love — 

on most days, I was over it. But the second life got a tad too overwhelming again, I’d find myself been drawn to that comfort of the first time I felt like there was a way out, and that was it.

Suicide was my bestfriend —

toxic as it were, he held me at 3.00 a. m. when no one else was around and promised me that everything will be okay.

Each time I ran in to the abyss of his cold embrace, the first few steps were always hesitant, with a little voice inside me begging, pleading, commiserating to take a step back. But the allure of the illusive eternal rest and escape from reality were louder than the slow serenades of hope, and thereon, it was a swift spiral.

But each time (and I’ve lost count how many), the little voice of hope found a way to throw a lifeline even while being submerged by the louder comfort of the Angel of Death. The voice would always fight back, and run to whichever good soul that’s willing to hold her hand through the storm that week. Regardless of how creative Suicide was that night (and from pills to blades and everything between it really kept raising the bar on innovative), hope was the blinding ray of light piercing through the darkness. Hope was a friend, a lover, a song, a poem — hope was a shapeshifter, but it was always there.

But here is what Hope never was; Hope was never me. The reason I pulled myself out of the spiral each time I plummeted was always someone else. I stopped myself for my brother I felt responsible for, for my parents that I owed, for a friend whom I felt needed me, for someone I was yet to meet, for  someone – anyone – else. And when the morning light comes and I had fought the good fight and won against Suicide, I was alive  – but never ever was I happy. In the morning after – Suicide became the missed connection, lost chance, for I never once came out of it for myself.

And here’s why these words find its way out today, here’s why for the first time I’m penning down my relationship with Suicide without hiding it in a third-person poem or a make-believe story;

Last night, I spiraled. 

I plummeted to his arms in a speed that I never have before — within minutes I was sitting on the floor forcing myself to cry hoping that the tears would create the illusion of release that my mind craved so badly.

I’m unsure as to why exactly I wavered last night; it was probably the stress of balancing the many roles in life,

or the guilt of not being the best daughter, sister, student or friend that has been lingering for a while,

probably that every Artists who’s words I related to kept committing suicide,    (to relate to dark lyrics is one thing, to have the artists consumed by the darkness they wrote of it that you wholeheartedly relate to is a completely different depth of fear)

or withdrawals from few weeks of artificially induced happy-blurs,

possibly having a week of those closest to my heart pointing out my flaws for me (as if my inadequacies weren’t keeping me up at night as it was)

combined with the lethal combination of a uninvited flashbacks and crippling loneliness.

I cried. I cried and cussed with every single inch of my being aching to the core, my ribcage crushing through my heart with every breath i take, begging for it to end, begging for me to end.

And despite my (fairly poor) attempts of baby-proofing my immediate environment to protect me from my own self, I knew exactly where the pills and blades were. (To be frank, I had gotten quite good at making weapons out of anything anyway). And the pills – my chemical romance – had a twofold purpose; a sedative to shut my thoughts and put me to sleep so I don’t entertain Suicide or a little extra for that lasting comfort.

But last night, I was too far too spent to carry on for anyone else and quite frankly, no amount of love from anyone else served as an enough reason to stick around a little longer.

Instead I carried myself to bed, curled up and held myself. No joints, no pills, no one. I let the little voice of hope take the lead. I spoke to myself. I spoke to myself about everything. I spoke about the first instance in life I realized what pain was to every circumstance that followed it.  Somehow in that moment as bizarre as it were, I was exactly the voice I needed to hear. For years now reassurance had come to me from so many people but never once had I heard the sound of my voice telling me that all is forgiven, and all is loved. I told myself that I am loved — first and foremost by myself. Just like my Lord Buddha taught me – you can be the candle that lights a thousand others but first, you need to be enlightened yourself (A fact I’ve always known to be true but never quite reconciled with). I proceeded to thank myself, forgive myself, list down out loud every thing that i identify with, and how much I love the person I’ve thus become. I held myself till the tears were spent and the mind was pacified — no longer begging for the mercy of eternal silence.

and this time, for the first time,  I came out of it for myself. 

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