The Irony of my Life as a Suicidal Person

Right now, I am not okay… which is rather ironic because I just blogged about reaffirming myself further despite being suicidal in a blog post in another section of this site.

But now I am going down the drain.

You see, I have a lingering pain in my back, then another cropped up at the left side of my rib cage or somewhere there. Then my feet are swelling for unbeknownst reasons, my arms as well. Add to it would be the intense pain I experience whenever I walk or move. I sit down, the pain in the aforementioned rib cage would be so intense, it’d be difficult to maintain a sitting position. I lie down, it goes away. What mystery this could be, confounds me, especially as to the real culprit; the new anti-psychotic meds I have been taking? I don’t know. I hesitate into visiting another doctor specializing in some other illness as they would have me undergo tests equally expensive for me. So what’s the use? I can’t do those tests as I have no money to fund them, so I’ll just remain in this hapless state.

Now we’ll go to the depressive / suicidal aspect of my suffering.

Throughout the months of my supposed convalescing from depression and anxiety (and the intense desire to kill myself), I could not particularly point out whatever wellness I have achieved. For all the days I have been out of work, I had been attempting to make life better by artworks and writing things, as well as resting. Well, at some point, my mind did rest as my doctor prescribed that I don’t think about work-related matters for the meantime. However, the mood swings could get a little tricky: it is as if they are subsumed into a sort of thick layer in my brain within which they hibernate until they try to ease themselves out depending on particular “whims”. The only thing is, there never was a day wherein I did not experience suicidal thoughts. It seems that my everyday was peppered with it, at the most during nighttime and I would have difficulty sleeping, even with Rivotril (Clonazepam) on. All these despite my own “illusions” that I was fine, getting better, just as what I had told colleagues when I paid a short visit to school one Friday when they asked how I had been faring.

It’s all a sham.

Here I am, trying to blog my troubles away. For three days, I have been thinking of overdosing—maybe so as I could prevent myself getting back from work leave, or that because I want my “hiatus” to be permanent, like permanent where people would have a coffin viewing with me inside the coffin, surrounded by flowers courtesy of the municipal hall (that gives flowers away for free as condolences upon the demise of their citizens). But most of these is wracked with the unknown: do I really want to kill myself? And the penultimate question: Why am I so unhappy?

I don’t know. It’s so incorrigibly stationary—this feeling of emptiness where I barely survive the tempests going on in my head ALL THE TIME, EVERY SINGLE DAY.

So it’s not surprising to know that, as of this writing, all I want is to die right now.


Yes, I understand that everyone has their own versions of suffering, and mine is no difference. I bear the brunt of problems like the rest of humankind because I am still a living, breathing complex machine of sorts. However, if this logic were true, why, then, do some people die by suicide? Does their grappling with the same burden they carry everyday account for the idea that everyone has their own problems to boot? That they were not brave enough to weather the storms within? For me, saying such a thing is discriminatory in a way in as much as we don’t know how much they have been struggling; and for us to say that “everyone has their own problems (so do you) thus you must continue fighting” can be a little bit degrading to the efforts of the suicidal person. It is as if imputing upon them a sort of weakness, when, in fact, they have been trying to survive day in and out and act as though there isn’t anything wrong with them.

And that’s why, sometimes, I am tired of the cliche “you can make it.” Truth of the matter is, I’m on the brink of turning all tables upside down. Nothing matters to me anymore as I write this. I can’t find a sense of purpose nor a reason for me to actually rise up every morning and do what I ought to do in a day. I AM TIRED. I AM DONE WITH. There is nothing out there for me anymore; and with this, I am continuously being broken by my very own existence. Moreover, don’t tell me that I don’t believe in the power of prayer, or God being the healer of all maladies, or that I don’t have enough faith, or that I’d go to hell so I need to pray my mental illness away. Saying those things brings me to self-destruct even more! (I have this seething detestation over people, especially my family with an ultra-religious mindset, who drag God into the picture, when it has nothing to do with my own personal faith since it’s my mental health that’s at stake here. Heck they don’t even recognize my desire to have my own kind of religious freedom, to attend a particular church I am drawn to!)

Right now, I am just hoping for the end of two things: my life and my suffering. I have endured for so long and I am impatient (sorry for that) to see the future of how my life would lead. However, this impatience has gone towards discontent and apathy towards how everything, in the form of a vicious cycle, continues to wreak havoc upon the inner core of my world. I am on the brink—on the edge—of letting it all go. I might do so, in a snap of a finger, and it would be just a tiny little spark or movement of a clock’s second hand that I might turn this monster of a self into an entity on perpetual repose.

I am tired. TIRED. I have no dreams anymore. Nothing more. Not much amount of my words can actually concretize what I really experience right now. I.can’t.even.

Pray that I survive this day. If no update comes around, then I you all know what it is.

Thanks for reading.

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