Content Warnings: Suicide, suicidal ideations, depression.
Time is a merciless soldier against trauma. For a long time, the word ‘suicide’ has been a dirty, dark word. Suicide. It’s etymolgy — New Latin — suīcīdium: “killing of oneself”.
I am a big consumer of news — and that’s probably not a good thing. News capitalises on flashy headlines, or urgent things. Rarely are they positive. Today, I read the statistics from a mental health organisation that suicides were alarmingly high within people in their 20s, and it made me feel even more disheartened.
People have chosen to end their lives — or perhaps, they felt like they didn’t have a choice. Perhaps it’s time to rethink suicide. The people who believe it isn’t right — I sometimes wonder if it is because they have tasted or seen enough of good things, that’s why. It’s extremely easy to tell someone ‘Don’t die’ or think suicide as a bad thing, but you have no clue what their family was like, what their situation is like in their living homes. There are so many, many painful factors that one forgets. It’s like being set on fire — wouldn’t you want reprieve, too?
Yet even when I say this, my instinct is to feel sad when someone commits suicide. I visit blogs — am empty cavern no longe there. Emptiness. Suicide is emptiness. From pain. From grief. From happiness. From anything.
A girl from a top Junior College in my country killed herself. A boy from the same school. A boy from an arts school. An 18-year old. I think the news really needs to start showing the news of people who survived things, who then went from surviving to living. I do not understand the full context — but what I know is — but if it was caused my family problems and pressures — rarely are they accounted or responsible for.
I can’t tell you the amount of things that have been said to me.
From the age of 5, the trauma began. I am 26. That means that over 81% of my life has been trauma. That means that I am different. That means that the things I see from an ordinary neurotypical person — are going to be irrecovably different. I sometimes resent it — being alive. I resent it darkly. I resent it because I am in a world where I know I will have to pretend to be normal, cover my skin and act like I am unhurt. This is what I resent the most.
