March 7th 2018.
I cried. I remembered of that thing inside of me. I left it locked. On January 1st 2018, I promised my self that I will not go back to that place this year. I have to be brave to move on. I have faith, I know that I have it, so I can walk my feet again to a better place.
For those who have known me in real life, whom I have opened my heart to, I want to say thank you. I want to thank you for listening to what happened to me these past few years.
I suffered from depression for three years. The first time I experienced the symptoms was when I was in second year of junior high school. I didn't have the knowledge of my mental health instability at that time. I thought it was just because of the pubescent age. I locked my self from the outside world. I didn't let anyone in.
The second time, I experienced my first episode. It was when I hit high school. I began to notice the dark clouds piling above my head. I began to reek of stinking black shadows gathered over my shoulders. I began to feel the tight-fitting invisible rope around my neck. Obviously, I began to practice putting on variety of masks before I go to school.
As the time went on, I noticed something terrible had happened inside of me. I wanted to die. I didn't have the capability to get off my bed as I wished for my lungs, my heart, and my brain to stop working altogether. Living scared me. No place belonged to me, I thought so.
I cut my wrist. I strangled my own neck. I drank a bottle of painkillers as if the invisible pain would wash away.
I dissociated.
My thoughts, my will, my dream, my being, all began to engage to numbness.
February 2015. I was introduced to the world of medical treatment for my mental health. The world finally confirmed that I was unstable. My existence was loose between the line of living and dying even though my being was set to keep living in default. The expert told me that I was diagnosed with depression. It surprised my family but it didn't to me. I was paralyzed in my numbness. I still wanted to die.
July 2016. A new milieu was written in my book of enigma. I told my mom that I wanted to live by my self for a while. My new friends said hi to me and I said yes for them to let in. I believed that this may be my new beginning. A blank book that I have always dreamed of. A set of customized pages that I can paint anytime I want with my favorite colors on it.
September 2017. I denied its existence. I lied to my self. A year of faking nirvana into my consciousness. I had learnt to create my artificial self that is fake, false, and fallacious. Everything went back to zero. I fell down to the ground wishing that I should have died years ago.
October 2017. The people I trusted began to question my truth. Was I insatiable that I hurt them the same way I hurt my sense of being? Was I in the position of torturing my self? Was I purposefully hide what actually had happened to me? The third week of the month, I confessed to them that I was ill. I admitted that I have a disorder. From that moment on, I took a seat to acknowledge its existence.
My depression.
I have depression.
December 31st 2017 - 23.58. I experienced one of my worst episodes. I was standing in the middle of a celebration of a new lifetime. I was dressed in one of my best look. Glittering eyeshadow adorned my eyelids, bold maroon lipstick to show how presented I was, not to forgot the false personality that I show to enliven the party. The ocean wind passed through my hypocrisy. I sung, laughed, and yelled out loud how amazing the night was.
January 1st 2018 - 00.01. I slumped down at the back of the beach house's bathroom door. My tears ran down the same exact time the wave unable to swept my pain. My episode started to worsen each second. All I did was crying. I have lived years of wishing my physique to be swept off the sea and never be found.
The ocean woke me up from my nap under the afternoon sun ray. In the middle of lined up cars, we were stuck timelessly on the road. That was the horrifying impact of spending the new year's eve at a beach house. To go back home felt like the longest drive we've ever went through. It was also the longest hours for me to ever zoned out observing the beauty of the sea. I love long car ride.
As I built my own fictional scenario, it got me. The depression talked back to me.
It spoke to me. She spoke to me. It was me. She was me.
It was—she was devastated. She felt empathy. She pitied me. She cried for me.
She wanted me to be happy. All along it was her, as she told me. It was her who invented my messed up enigma. As she caressed my invisible blanket that I used to hide underneath,
she spoke to me,
"There is only one thing that I wish.
It's not death.
It's a sense of contentedness."
//
I discovered that it wasn't a new book that I need but a sense of belonging. A visible smile painted on my face as I turned the next page of my enigma-tarnished book to continue.
February 1st 2018. I lived.
March 1st 2018. I lived.
March 7th 2018. I lived.
I accepted her—
my own being,
my enigma,
—my depression.
Then, I live.
