I Believe Narrative
When Hope Gets Lost
Imagine constantly being asked “Why can’t you just pull yourself together?” Being told “You have nothing to be depressed about, you have so much going for you!”, “But you don’t SEEM depressed, you were just laughing an hour ago!” For those struggling with many of life’s abundant obstacles, suicide seems like the ideal compromise for the self-destruction and agony to end. I believe that suicide is not the answer because I’ve overcome it myself. I’ve had to learn in the most difficult of ways that suicide is exceedingly traumatic for the friends and family members. 90 percent of people who have taken their own life have a diagnosable mental disorder. There are countless alternatives for people who struggle with these disorders, long before suicide is even being contemplated. In reverse, back in 2012 was when the low first started to hit. It was overwhelming, unannounced, never-ending hopelessness, which would last for days. I could hardly sleep at all, my appetite nonexistent. “What’s wrong with you?” I was a zombie. Around this time brings us to the earliest encounter with my pal, the blade. There are so many things that one person can become addicted to; drugs, tobacco, gambling, sports, alcohol. Mine was the wacky sensation that spread through my entire anatomy every single time I lacerated the surface of my skin. Something about the way the wound pulsed with fresh rose-colored fluid. I held Kleenex to my arms till the blood ran dull. Eventually things would return to their orderly routine, sleeves covered my arms in the hot season of the year. Only once did my mother question my stocky blouse in that fever weather before she discovered what I was trying to camouflage. She was dumbfounded. What would any parent do in this situation, really? To find that their practical infant, being I was only thirteen and hardly even a teenager, was a self-mutilating, boy-obsessed, downright unhappy, psychopath. Whatever you want to call it, anyways.
Imagine constantly being asked “Why can’t you just pull yourself together?” Being told “You have nothing to be depressed about, you have so much going for you!”, “But you don’t SEEM depressed, you were just laughing an hour ago!” For those struggling with many of life’s abundant obstacles, suicide seems like the ideal compromise for the self-destruction and agony to end. I believe that suicide is not the answer because I’ve overcome it myself. I’ve had to learn in the most difficult of ways that suicide is exceedingly traumatic for the friends and family members. 90 percent of people who have taken their own life have a diagnosable mental disorder. There are countless alternatives for people who struggle with these disorders, long before suicide is even being contemplated. In reverse, back in 2012 was when the low first started to hit. It was overwhelming, unannounced, never-ending hopelessness, which would last for days. I could hardly sleep at all, my appetite nonexistent. “What’s wrong with you?” I was a zombie. Around this time brings us to the earliest encounter with my pal, the blade. There are so many things that one person can become addicted to; drugs, tobacco, gambling, sports, alcohol. Mine was the wacky sensation that spread through my entire anatomy every single time I lacerated the surface of my skin. Something about the way the wound pulsed with fresh rose-colored fluid. I held Kleenex to my arms till the blood ran dull. Eventually things would return to their orderly routine, sleeves covered my arms in the hot season of the year. Only once did my mother question my stocky blouse in that fever weather before she discovered what I was trying to camouflage. She was dumbfounded. What would any parent do in this situation, really? To find that their practical infant, being I was only thirteen and hardly even a teenager, was a self-mutilating, boy-obsessed, downright unhappy, psychopath. Whatever you want to call it, anyways.