Suicide

I started writing this note a long long time ago. I started writing it on a piece of paper and burned it after my close friend suicide. I wrote in on the blue lining of my student notebook, on the right hand corner of every last paper. I wrote in on the piece of wood under my bed when I was hospitalized. I wrote it in my diary every night in Singapore. I never once shared it because it has never come out right.

I am finally and simply publishing this note right here, because it seems like an appropriate time. I am now the happiest I have ever been in my entire life, and sadly, even me at my happiest, I am still not happy. This note right here, is about my frank thoughts, on suicide. I wanted a “cool-down” time for myself, to reassure myself that it wasn’t just a “negative thought” on a bad day. It wasn’t. It is here to stay.

Please don’t read this article if you are not comfortable about this topic. Please don’t read it if you are going to be an asshole and comment offensive stuff. I am just sharing my honest thoughts, like always.

The only thing that can make a death any worse is the talk about the death. It is everywhere, it is around, it is making me physically sick. My friend, my dear dear friend who I talk about day and night and every single minute in between, who I keep telling to “hang in there”, “hang on, just for another minute”, have decided to let go. The inevitable, the human emotions: denial, anger, letting go, it goes the same away for both of the living and the dead (and to the dead when they was living). 

A thought that was really comforting me was in realizing that all this pain I am suffering when my loved one passed away, she feels none of it. She is gone, forever, and ever. All of this confusion, all of these feeling, all of these dealing and handling and screaming, the pleasure is all mine. And because I love her very much, it comforts me to hang in a little longer.

And then, from that thought, I realized something big: not only that the feeling I am having, but EVERY SINGLE FUCKING THING in the world is now mine and mine only: she is no longer here. For anything. For ever. How undeniably blind was I to not see such a “in – your – face” kind of thing? I was looking too closely to only realize that the matter needs to be seen as a whole picture and not the tiny view through my two optical.

The only thing that was more difficult for me when I heard about her death was when I reread it on the local newspaper. Fuck that newspaper. Obituary, with name, introduction, background, it means nothing to me or to her. How about the color of her eyes? How about how kind she is to the old lady who hit her with a stick in the head? How about how she is the only one in the family who is not supporting Communist? I rather read about that than how many brothers and sisters she has, how many jobs she has, how many charity has she worked for. Numbers numbers numbers are all they remember, just like computers.

One of the most common, most predictable and most fucked up comments, to talk about someone’s death, is “what a waste”. Fuck you if you say that, fuck you hard. “What a waste” is a shorten form off “Too bad, you could have live longer to contribute to this fucked up society; you have years ahead to waste for these creatures who don’t even remember the color of your eyes”. Let’s not forget about the high and mighty as well, saying shits like “She was so young, she was foolish” or “She should have thought about her family and other people who love her”. I just want to run and scream and shout at them. Fuck you, fuck you hard. Do you really think, a person who is so sad she killed herself, have not think about that shit before? No. She thinks about it every day, she thinks about it every night, she thinks and rethinks, but none of that changed the fact that she is sad.

Mad people, sad people thinking that something is wrong with her when they are the one judging the dead. She is gone, you people, she is gone. She is not going to because she doesn’t have to listen to you ever again.

Me in my first ever miserably failed suicide attempt, ended me up in the hospital, and the doctor said to me that “You just attempted a permanent solution to a temporary problem”. I said, “My life is the problem”.

Suicidal people, or at least us, we know who we are and how much we worth. We don’t need you to value and calculate it over the potential on our almost death body. We have been through every single thing you said, over and over and over again, reminding ourselves that we need this, we have that, we can get medications, we always can have help. We know about our past, we know about our future, but it doesn’t change a single thing, and let me explain it to you why.

If you don’t have anything, and you are sad, you probably thing it is not you it is the lack of everything else. But when you have done your best in life, be the best you can be, work and play and be as hard as you can be, but you are still sad, you know that is it. When you are satisfied, but you are not happy, you have putted the dot at the end of your sentence.

Let me tell you, we don’t really want to die. We want to live, we want to be, we want to be happy. But it is so difficult for us, death is an easier choice.

I don’t deny the effect of help, or love, or medication. I have all of that, and I don’t know if I am feeling any better, but at least I am not dead, so they are doing their jobs right (?). I am just so pissed off at all of these people who thinks that people who are mentally sick are “crazy”. When you are taking 123012 types of drugs to get high, you are “crazy”, but when you take medication for mental sickness, you are “mentally sick”. Excuse us for wanting to get better. People don’t take people with mental sickness seriously or fear of them, which is fucking ridiculous. I hate it so much when someone said to me “it is only in your mind” or “you just need to think positive”. Yes good advice thank you I shall live happily ever after now doctor!

Leave her alone, leave my friend alone. Whatever you may think of her, it doesn’t matter anymore, to her or to me. I know she is in peace.

You can never get it right, trust me. I have tried, in every single way possible. When I was devastated about her death, people tell me that I should be happy that she is finally in peace. When I overcome the denial and anger and accept that, they say that I should not be okay with it or else I am romanticizing her death. What a joke. This concept of “romanticizing death” is not real for me, at all. I don’t think that it is tragically beautiful or beautiful but tragic; all I know is that an existence has ended.  Shit people say: they say she shall be free now. Fuck you she was free before, but it wasn't enough.