When I was Younger, I Wanted to Die

If one would care to look – really look – at my left wrist, they may see a faint scar. It’s nothing immediately noticeable, just a faint discoloration. The scar tissue is lighter, and that is it.

This is not what I had planned to write, to tell you the truth. I had actually started writing about my talk about rape and victim-blaming, but here I am, deviating away from those subjects. This blog is partly confession, partly catharsis. I don't know if it will be inspirational, as this is simply topsy-turvy insight of an ex-suicidal girl, but i do wish people can find some sort of comfort here. 

You see, when I was younger and more stupid, I was one fucked-up girl. The stupidity and fuck-uppery of my life and my decisions were so bad, I almost lost my scholarship in a DOST-supported high school. I almost did not take the Nursing Licensure Exam (which I passed despite skipping review classes most of the time).

I won’t tell you why I got depressed the way I did. Needless to say, things just piled up, I had very flimsy support system, and I have a history of being used and abused by people who I loved and who I thought loved me in return. I was wrong on that aspect, obviously. What I will tell you is that this month has been the most challenging yet. I am broke (I have a penchant for letting people borrow money) and being broken (I also have a penchant for giving my heart to people who would do nothing but break it). October has, for a lack of better term, been a bitch, and will perhaps continue to do so until the Fates release me from torment.

I sometimes think of how it felt like to cut and sleep away everything that hurt me – from friends who I loved and who betrayed me, to my misfortunes – the fact that I am ugly, fat, unlovable, and broke. It’s tempting, isn’t it, so slip into the comforting cradle of self-destruction and let shit hit the fan.

Then I remember that I am awesome. Which is why, tangina, I can’t give up. 

I gave myself scars because I wanted to die, and I have them now, as a reminder that I have so much more to live for.

I am fat. I am ugly because my genes decided to give me skin asthma and not Katrina Domingo-esque Math skills  (Katrina is my math genius high school classmate; I still think she’s amazing after all these years). I may be a little (read: a lot) crazy. I may not be the kind of girl that guys would want to bring home to mom because I’m outspoken and, being the breadwinner, I don’t know how to cook fancy stuff and clean the house. I may have screwed up a lot. I may never be loved by the one person I’ve been deeply in love with. This October may be a huge slab of fuck-uppery and crying fits.

But I have other things going for me. I have the ability to be healthier and this time, I will do it not for anyone else’s approval. I can take care of myself more. I can study to be better at other things, to have a wider perspective and to appreciate life more. I have the magic of learning and literature and arts. One day, I may be loved by someone, not despite my outspoken and crazy attitude, but because of it. It may not be the person I want now (and it will probably never be him). And if this someone never comes, I have my family and my best friend. I have friends and I can try and make more (Flowie, don't worry, I am and will be ok). I have kindness and forgiveness as an essential traits. 

I have someone who is required to give me unconditional love for the rest of my life, and I plan on making sure that this person does what is required – myself.

So I will accept all of your blows, October. Even if I should cry every night and every day, I will accept all your blows. But know this: I will rise. No longer will I seek solace in artificial sleep or blood or self destruction.

I will rise.