Looking out from a porch, a story would just be a slideshow of beautiful things. Superficial like a cover of a book. A fairytale backdraft in a tragic play. Reality is bolder behind closed doors.
No life is picture perfect just as no person is without fault. Sometimes though, we kid ourselves by painting a happy mask to wear for people to look at, so that our darkness wouldn’t have to take center stage. We hide our brokenness because it is intimate, because it represents weakness. Like broken hinges that can’t be mended. No one wants to play the role of a loser, the one who dies first in a low budget motion picture.
Who we are when no one is looking, behind closed doors when all the lights have been shut off, is reality; With our fears and our sadness, with our scarred skin mapping our journey, with the tears crashing down, and our pieces falling off and scattering around our bare feet, is the story behind the sunshine covers of most of our lives. A clown does not fall asleep a clown.
We do what we have to do to cope. Some hold on to glitter, to mask the blackness surrounding who they are. Some immerse themselves with beautiful things, to forget the ugliness written somewhere in their storylines. There are some however, who ironically cope by befriending their demons, by remembering the darkness, by revisiting a tragedy. Different strokes for different folks. I write to continue living. I write to survive. And unlike those who try very hard to present an idyllic scene, I write about my darkness. I write about a tainted and imperfect life. By doing so, I am liberated from the distorted images I have of myself inside my head. It is a mirror from which I see who I am, because I am someone I never really got to know very well.
I play many roles. Some I play well, some quite poorly. Some I am extremely proud of, and some I’d rather forget. But who I am when roles are stripped off, and I am presented in my barest form devoid of masks and illusions is my unedited story. The stories I journal directly as my thoughts run haywire. It is the story I give directly to you. I am my only story.
Why do you fear me and not your own madness? Why are you haunted by the shadows I cast when your very own darkness hover within you? Not every outcast are taken over by blackness. Some try very hard to find the faintest flicker of light; Some choose to build dreams upon dreams out of broken pieces, like a stepping stone that would eventually take them across the filthy, infested swamp of depression. We ran like the wind to escape, to cope, or at least to find that part of us untouched by the cruelties of circumstances. Most of us do not run after the world, but rather, we ran away from it. The world is dangerous, and we are already severely wounded. We hide to nurse fresh wounds, and we reach out with scarred hands, still hoping to make that essential communion that makes life worth living. Not all deviants are bad, and not all those who profess normalcy are sane.
Don’t search the darkness for ghosts. Don’t search my eyes in the hope to see emptiness. Look within your heart. It’s where you’ll find a void not even my madness can compete with. Don’t search the asylum of the insane for coldness. The space that once housed your soul burns colder than ice. I am mad but not cruel. You are supposed to be sane and yet with your every step you harbor a grudge that boils down to hate and paranoia. How tragic it is for such a healthy mind to get crippled by blows no one had cast but his very own hands.
I find it amusing that people try so hard to find something to fear on every ounce of vagueness conjured, when the worst predator this world had ever created are the so called “normal race”; the cold and calculating face hidden within every sweet smile; the tortured, vengeful heart that knows no end. The most lethal poisons are those served by trusted hands.
I like to read. I plan my day carefully so that I will still have time to read my books. Unlike other children, I don’t play much. Television and movies bore me. Books are my sole source of entertainment. The old people do not approve of it. My Grandma once said, “ if you don’t move, mosquitoes will drain all your blood”. That frightened the hell out of me, nevermind if the entire house then was screened. So I tried to learn to read while walking around my room. That kinda gave me some terrible headaches, but I was not going to let the mosquitoes drain my blood.
My classmates think I am a bit different. I am painfully shy and laid back. I know things they don’t and my ideas are way above the level of graders which made me some sort of an outsider in their eyes at a very early age. I write a lot. I am the youngest contributor in our school paper. Again, my writings screamed “ nuts-o!”. My poetries are darker than dark, and once a concerned school counselor asked me why, I just shrugged and said, “I don’t know. I just write that way”. Of course being eccentric allows you to win a lot of creativity awards, BUT it dismantled any chance I had to have a normal social life. Being darkly creative is fine among artists, but disturbing maybe when the artist is just 7 years old.
So when I was diagnosed with Major Depression, I wasn’t surprised. I’ve always been odd. I just didn’t know then that my bouts of “brain flu” as I used to call it had a medical name and that it was an illness that could have caused me my life.
I remember that in high school, long before the “emo” generation had come to be known, my style had already been Gothic of sort. I emanate a kind of gloomy air without really intending to. To them, I am someone who is incapable of having a good time.
During college, the bad emotions became more apparent. And I dealt with it by drinking. I remember mixing vodka in my orange juice. I’d go to class dead drunk. There was even a time during my swimming class when I couldn’t remember how I crossed the pool. I couldn’t remember getting in the water. I passed with a grade of 1.75.
I am in accelerated class in college. How I managed it while being plagued with depression is beyond me. I have not been diagnosed then, and so I am running purely on will power. No medicine nor therapy to aid me. Fatigue was a constant ramp and the feeling of hopelessness was almost reaching its threshold. I abused substances to help me cope. I engaged in risky behaviours to fill in the emptiness that seem to grow bigger than I am every single day. I still had a long way to go. To give up had never been a welcomed notion as far as I am concerned. I am never one to quit. Maybe, my persistence and pride did saved my life all those times.
Along that time though is when I started to cut. Not deep enough to warrant intervention. Just deep enough to bleed. I did not want to die. I just wanted to feel. I am numb and I did not know why. I felt alone and frightened. I knew something is going on inside my head I could not control.
I finished college and went on to Med School. I am 3rd year med proper, during a psychiatry class that I was introduced to Depression. It stared me in the eye, and I knew then that my secret demon had a name.
I knew I had to be managed. But I was afraid to be found out. I had this absurd idea that when the school finds me depressed, I will not be allowed to graduate, and I couldn’t accept that. So, I self medicated. I researched, did my very own, personal PCP, asked a teacher an Rx of Fluoxetine and boom! For the first time in my life, I felt free. I felt the gray cloud lift up, the perpetual veil in my eyes is gone. I felt a different person after that.
The freedom was short lived. Taking the antidepressant aggravated my insomnia. It also affected my eating habits. I lost my appetite so drastically I was almost skin and bones. By the time I started clerkship, no resident wants me in their OR because it was simply too tedious to find a gown that I won’t trip on to, and find me surgical gloves that fit snuggly on my hands. They were also afraid I’d collapse on them during a 12 hours long Whipple surgery. I stopped the antidepressant. I still didn’t know better.
As the years passed by, the depression grew worse. And by the time I was finally diagnosed and properly managed, I’d have tried suicide more than 50 times, and I am nowhere near who I really am. The suicide attempts, I could say now with conviction that it was not because I wanted to die. It was simply a part of the fulminant stage of clinical depression. I had no thoughts about death. My consciousness never once consented to dying. Suicide is just something the ailing brain pushes you to do and you are helpless to do anything about it. I did not want to die. I wanted help. I knew I needed help. I just did not know how to get it. And I am a doctor. I can’t begin to imagine how others might be feeling.
Why am I sharing this? Because I wanted people to know that Depression is not a “status illness”. It is not a hype disease. It is real and it has our faces all over it. I am one of the lucky ones. I got to catch it before it literally blew me away to kingdom come. I am not saying I don’t have it anymore. I still do. Unfortunately, it still has no definite cure. But I was able to reclaim my life from it at long last. If one medicine doesn’t work, don’t give up. There are more chances that one will work. You also have to wait at least 2 weeks for the first noticeable improvement, so hang on and don’t let go no matter what. Most importantly, don’t be afraid to talk about it. Fight the stigma. You are not crazy. You are simply ill. People who brand you as “nuts” are people who don’t know better. They are morons and their opinions don’t matter, BUT you do. We do.
I woke up not knowing what to expect. I cowered under the sheets, allowing a few more moments of forged security to calm my senses. It’s a mean world out there after all, and I am just another grain of sand in the vast desert of moving mortals. Among the triumphant titans, I am just another broken soul, just another grain the rain washes over, just another useless body to use, just another name to forget.
The world is suffocating from the smoke of burnt offerings. It had gone blind from the glitter of fake gems crowding the altar floor. It had gone deaf from the roar of pretentious praises. I have nothing to offer but my broken soul. My pockets are empty except for the pieces of my being I tried to keep but failed to put together. My feet are muddied because of the puddle my tears created. Will the altar accept my fears and nightmares as offering? Will it be willing to take my dark memories? Maybe not, so I’m walking on.
The clean congregation mocked me. I have soiled their sacred ground with my careless mistakes. It is sacrilege to come with my sadness, my shadows misfitted among the crowd of the enlightened. I am a sinner walking along the clean floors of the baptised and the chosen.
Some dreams are created in dirty alleys. Some hearts are born along infested gutters, like colorful confettis left by a grand parade. Some souls scavenge garbage bins for a bit of kindness, a drop of compassion. Often though, this world is fast to sing hallelujah, but too stingy to give love to those who need it the most.
I am my sacrifice. My life is my offering to God, along with the shadows of my past, my mistakes and my weakness; my fears and my confusions; my broken dreams and my endlessly bleeding heart. I have nothing that glitters, for I am a black hole. I have not memorized scriptures but I can recite what I often tell myself when the devil wants me to end it all. I can tell you the names of the people I cried with, people I allowed into my hiding place so that even for a moment, they will not be alone. I will tell you the story of my life, grit and all, for it is all that I am, and it is all I have to give, in this makeshift altar among the outcasts, the lepers, and the lost.
We have two kinds of thought processes: the conscious and the unconscious. One is the gatekeeper, while the other is the task master. They are like two individuals living in one body, similar in many aspect, but ironically contrasting as well.
Our subconscious mind often acts in autopilot to free the conscious mind, which is programmed to do a task one at a time. We learn through our conscious mind, but it’s ability to hold information for a long time is often faulty because it is distracted by new informations and new tasks to be performed. The subconscious then gets into play. It is our storage warehouse of old informations like life experiences, vital functions, mechanical tasks, and beliefs. Therefore, it greatly influences behaviour, future thought processes, and well, character. It is that part of us that does not sleep. In fact, it influences our dreams, and of course, even our nightmares. It instigates our anxieties and fears; it holds some vital explanations to our phobias, even our negative emotions that we now all know trigger depression.
I see it as two individuals residing within my head. One subjected to logic and reason, and one that is resistant to it, and ultimately defiant to change. Our subconscious mind is dramatically attached to old routines. It embraces habit and it is aggressively protective. It often walls out traumatic events from resurfacing to the conscious self, though it may allow a leak out since no one and nothing in the natural world is guaranteed infallible. The leak out often comes in the form of a sudden feeling, an extreme reaction to certain experiences, smell or sight. A vision that seem to momentarily cloud logic. These are what we call triggers. A phenomenon that could only be explained by psychoanalysis and hypnosis since it traverses the dark and often misunderstood domain of the subconscious. Triggers are things, events or people that invoke extreme and often illogical negative emotions that shatters all carefully build defenses, allowing a moment of recall, a temporary flashback to a world that had once caused too much pain, a memory the subconscious mind perceived as too painful and hence blocked out from freely resurfacing to the conscious domain.
The subconscious mind holds most of the answers to why we are what we are now.
How close can you capture sadness while I laugh in your face? While I dance around you, swinging and swirling like a stranger to sorrows? How close do you need to hold me to understand that while I blaze like a huge bonfire in the night, I am freezing cold? How close do I have to be for you to see that I am a void I have no idea how to fill?
A black hole resides inside of me and I am pulled in little by little until nothing of me is left , and I hold onto your hands hoping you still have the strength to pull be back. I hold unto your heart hoping that it could beat for the two of us, while mine rests for awhile.
How much of me would stay to catch another day close its eyes? To bid it goodnight without actually believing that I’d still be around to see it wake up. How much of me could continue tickling the world while a thorn stays imbedded within my soul? How much of me could still keep up?
Do you see me, the real me, with all the shadows and sad memories? Will you trace my scars and say I am still lovely? I am being consumed and I need you to save me. I need you to want to save me.
An essay about self harming
People cut because they can’t deal with the pain the world inflicts on them.. They inflict pain they can handle, the kind of pain they are able to understand, so they can comfort themselves.
Sometimes, life is a raging ocean that drowns everything that we are, everything that we can ever be. And so we create ponds we can swim in. Big enough to contain us, but not big enough we get lost in.
We fill up with emotions we can’t understand. We are imploding. And so we cut for release. Not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to bleed, and to scar. We need to create something we can remember, while we try so hard to forget.
We cut to punish ourselves, for being who we are, for who we can’t ever be; for the many broken pieces that once were our dreams; for all the wrong turns and miscalculations; for the haywire life we can’t seem to control.
We cut so we can feel; For the assurance that we are still alive and not yet ghosts. Because sometimes, we can no longer feel anything, not even our own heartbeats.
We cut to make ourselves smaller, because we ran out of space, and we ran out of places to hide. We cut so that we can fit the pieces into a nook when the world blows up again. We cut to tell our stories, when we can’t master the courage to say it out loud.We cut for release, when the pressure builds up inside and we are in the verge of imploding. We cut because, ironically, we are exhausted and everything have grown bigger than who we are. We struggle to survive, as we are consumed alive by our very own fire.
Let’s remember who we are. Let’s say our names out loud and know how precious it sounds. We are worthy no matter how scarred we’ve been. Let’s give healing a chance, not because we have to, but because we can.