I feel this tremendous weight every day, the desire to end my life echoing through my thoughts. It's been a constant refrain for so long that even I've grown numb to it. But it's not an abstract notion; it's a persistent visitor, haunting my mind at least three times a day since I turned 16. Some might applaud my endurance, calling me a fighter. But I detest it. I want it gone. I want to live. No matter how hard I strive, it lingers a relentless temptation, an inextricable part of mental illness. The only reason I'm still here? Cowardice. The thought of pain halts me whenever I contemplate ending it all. The fall, the impact—it's quick but unbearable. So, I endure, clinging to the hope that someday, a reason to stay will find me. But after dwelling in the depths for so long, every glimmer of light feels more like deceit than hope.
Attempts to escape are suffocated by society's stigma, stereotypes, and rejections, pulling me back into despair. I linger there, unsure of where to turn or what path to take. This mental state remains vivid, increasingly excruciating as time slips by, my pleas for help falling on deaf ears. Only at the brink of insanity do people acknowledge the desperate need for intervention. Often, it's too late. Thankfully, my cries were heard, and I found myself sitting in a psychiatrist's office.
I remember sitting in the waiting room, trying to avoid familiar faces that might see me there and label me a failure. Yet, a part of me was relieved—I was a step closer to healing. Months of therapy and medication brought relief. I was myself again. My family celebrated this triumph.
What I didn't anticipate was the higher likelihood of relapse after experiencing mental illness. Even if I conquer it once, it could resurface, a relentless cycle worsening over time.
Months later, the pandemic shattered the stability I'd regained through therapy. I lost access to mental health services—a frightening reality. My mind's treacherous whispers now loom over me. Any moment it could convince me to end it all, persuading me I'm just delaying the inevitable. I'm back to square one. And I'm exhausted.
Each morning, I wake drained, lacking the will to do anything. Life presents hurdles when all I ask for is help. Stigma, prejudice, insults—they assail me endlessly. I'm weary of fighting, yet even if I win, I'm thrust back into a war I thought I'd left behind. Closure remains elusive.
But amid this exhausting ordeal, I glimpse happiness. It's in phone calls with friends, family movie nights, a good book, or even the rain tapping on my window. In these moments, I find solace, reminders that life isn't as bleak as my illness paints it.
I won't spin this into a happy ending; the reality is some people do end their lives. Some of us never attain the life we desire, no matter how hard we strive. I won't offer inspiring quotes or motivational speeches; they don't work. I've read countless self-help books, yet I remain unchanged. They only reinforce my belief that I'm incapable of feeling normal.
However, while I'm still too fearful to end it all, I'll persist. I'll seek reasons to stay alive. Today, I've found a semblance of normalcy in writing about my struggles. Later, a movie will be my pat on the back for trying. Tomorrow, I'll find another set of reasons. The cycle will continue until I'm too old to function. That's the hopeful ending I yearn for—to never make it my choice to end my life. Because when I say I want to end my life, what I truly mean is I want to live without my illness dictating that I'm unworthy of it.
---
October 2020
She handles paperwork, exams, and tests effortlessly.
Her academic records boast perfection.
A flawless score.
On paper, everything seems pristine.
She stands atop the hierarchy.
She's surrounded by remarkable friends.
Her family offers unwavering support.
Despite this, her world seems draped in sadness and shades of grey.
It's as though a weight anchors her.
- Dragging her down
No matter how fiercely she fights.
She can't break free.
Living has turned into an unending nightmare.
She feared dropping her facade.
Everyone perceives her as flawless.
So she toils endlessly. She scarcely lives. She scarcely sleeps.
She craves greater achievements.
But in the end, she stumbled.
She fell ill.
And the table turned.
YOU ARE READING
The Gift of Merci
Short Story"Error means failure, and failure means disappointment." "The Gift of Merci" takes readers on a gripping journey through the life of Sage Luxaire, a relentless perfectionist who lives by the mantra that 'error equates to failure'. With a track recor...
