We all cope with hardships differently and we deal with pain through various emotional catharses. One thing we all share though is crying. It is the most common way of releasing pent up emotions and negative feelings that trouble us. I used to cry a lot when I was younger, back when I was in my pubescent years. Those years were so confusing and overwhelming to say the least. I was starting to shed off the last bits of childhood innocence and transitioning into a state of conscious thought. It marked the discovery of the truths about how the world works and more than anything, it was the stage when I started to learn about myself and how I am as a person.
The biggest struggle I had back then was reconciling the fact that I was starting to get attracted to boys, not girls. Being gay back then was hugely frowned upon and it didn't help that I didn't have the support system of a loving family to back me up as I navigated my way around this realization. I couldn't even say to myself that I was gay for fear that once I did, it would all become true and that there will be no turning back. I did everything I can to deny who I am. It was such a tedious task that I often found myself crying alone in the dead of night when everyone in the house was already asleep. I had to patiently wait for them to go to bed so I can have a moment to myself and think about the dire situation I was in. Dire because I felt like I needed to fight what I was feeling inside - that I needed to conform to what my parents told me about how a boy should be. Having to balance their huge expectations of me and what the outside world demanded of every boy was monumentally exhausting. It took every ounce of strength I had inside considering that I was barely an adult to have all the necessary faculties to help me cope with every situation that I was confronted with.
Every night I would quietly sneak out of my room and sit in the living room. I would turn the radio on with the volume set to the minimum, just enough for me to hear the songs playing. I'd purposely search for a radio station that was playing the saddest songs to help me cry and vent out as discreetly as was possible. It became a ritual to the point that I would secretly await that time of night that I had to myself. This went on for many nights until it reached a point that crying couldn't help me out anymore. Yes, it allowed me to release all the pain and confusion I had inside but since I have been doing it every night, it put me into a constant state of depression. One particular night, I felt so crushed inside that I had to think of something else to relieve myself of the immense hurt I was feeling. I found myself walking into the kitchen and drawing out a knife from one of the cupboards. I stared at it absentmindedly for a moment and as if by instinct, I slowly pressed it into my wrist. Before I knew it, I saw blood gushing out from my wrist. It wasn't much because the cut I made was only superficial but it was enough to bring me back to my senses. I immediately ran to the sink to wash away the blood and looked for a plaster to cover the wound with.
For some odd reason, it felt good - not in a conventional way but somehow it brought a sense of relief. The following night I contemplated on doing it again and like the night before, I found myself back in the kitchen with a knife in my hand and staring blankly into the drops of blood that gushed out of the small cut that I made on my wrist. I was careful not to harm myself too much that I'd be rushed to the hospital. I just needed to feel a different kind of pain, one that was self-inflicted, by choice. After demystifying self-inflicted pain, I found myself yet again in search of a new way to escape the pain I had inside. Cutting myself didn't "cut" it anymore. So, I finally decided to do the unthinkable. I decided to cross the path of no return - to end my life and be done with all the pain that my "sin" was bringing me.
It was a school night just like any other. I waited for everyone in the house to sleep before I sneaked out of my room. I went into the kitchen to get the same knife that I had developed a friendship with over the course of several nights. I sat myself in the living room and rested the knife on my lap. I cried so hard that night as I was praying to God telling Him how sorry I was for what I was about to do. I just felt so much guilt for being myself, for being gay, that I thought that ending my life might somehow redeem the sins of my being. As I was about to press the knife onto my wrist, I felt a numbness in my hands that spread throughout my entire body like wildfire. I couldn't move. It felt as if I was paralyzed. After a few moments, I regained control over my body and I just dropped the knife onto the floor. I couldn't do it. I could not end my life no matter how I wanted to. It was the ultimate escape that I have been looking for but right when I was about to do it, I couldn't find the strength. It doesn't matter whether you are religious or not or if you believe in a higher being at all. After that momentary feeling of paralysis I realized that I wasn't supposed to do what I was about to.
Back to square one. All the confusion and pain still in tact. I decided instead to pray to God to give me a heart of stone. It was the first night that I prayed for something so sincerely and earnestly. It would later become a prayer that I would stick to all through the remainder of my high school until I graduated from uni. One day I woke up and didn't feel like I was the same person I was before. I used to be full of dreams and hopes and that one night changed it all. I was jaded beyond compare and so bitter that I developed a form of emotional barrier that would help me cope up with pain more effectively - cynicism.
The ensuing years didn't help much either in giving me a better way of coping with pain. All I know is that so far, my way has been effective. Unsurprisingly, there is a twist to this story which I would tell you hopefully tomorrow. Stick around for the rest of the story. I don't guarantee any grand reveal or even a compelling conclusion to this story. All I have are the details of the life of a person who has constantly battled depression. Who knows, you might be in the same boat as I am and if you are, you might find this letter an interesting point to think about. Whether it helps you or not, my only goal is for you to know that you are not alone because more often than not, that is the reassurance that we all need to help us get through the hustle and bustle of our internal struggles - those that we keep to ourselves because they are too painful to share to the world which has shunned us first.
xoxo
QB
The biggest struggle I had back then was reconciling the fact that I was starting to get attracted to boys, not girls. Being gay back then was hugely frowned upon and it didn't help that I didn't have the support system of a loving family to back me up as I navigated my way around this realization. I couldn't even say to myself that I was gay for fear that once I did, it would all become true and that there will be no turning back. I did everything I can to deny who I am. It was such a tedious task that I often found myself crying alone in the dead of night when everyone in the house was already asleep. I had to patiently wait for them to go to bed so I can have a moment to myself and think about the dire situation I was in. Dire because I felt like I needed to fight what I was feeling inside - that I needed to conform to what my parents told me about how a boy should be. Having to balance their huge expectations of me and what the outside world demanded of every boy was monumentally exhausting. It took every ounce of strength I had inside considering that I was barely an adult to have all the necessary faculties to help me cope with every situation that I was confronted with.
Every night I would quietly sneak out of my room and sit in the living room. I would turn the radio on with the volume set to the minimum, just enough for me to hear the songs playing. I'd purposely search for a radio station that was playing the saddest songs to help me cry and vent out as discreetly as was possible. It became a ritual to the point that I would secretly await that time of night that I had to myself. This went on for many nights until it reached a point that crying couldn't help me out anymore. Yes, it allowed me to release all the pain and confusion I had inside but since I have been doing it every night, it put me into a constant state of depression. One particular night, I felt so crushed inside that I had to think of something else to relieve myself of the immense hurt I was feeling. I found myself walking into the kitchen and drawing out a knife from one of the cupboards. I stared at it absentmindedly for a moment and as if by instinct, I slowly pressed it into my wrist. Before I knew it, I saw blood gushing out from my wrist. It wasn't much because the cut I made was only superficial but it was enough to bring me back to my senses. I immediately ran to the sink to wash away the blood and looked for a plaster to cover the wound with.
For some odd reason, it felt good - not in a conventional way but somehow it brought a sense of relief. The following night I contemplated on doing it again and like the night before, I found myself back in the kitchen with a knife in my hand and staring blankly into the drops of blood that gushed out of the small cut that I made on my wrist. I was careful not to harm myself too much that I'd be rushed to the hospital. I just needed to feel a different kind of pain, one that was self-inflicted, by choice. After demystifying self-inflicted pain, I found myself yet again in search of a new way to escape the pain I had inside. Cutting myself didn't "cut" it anymore. So, I finally decided to do the unthinkable. I decided to cross the path of no return - to end my life and be done with all the pain that my "sin" was bringing me.
It was a school night just like any other. I waited for everyone in the house to sleep before I sneaked out of my room. I went into the kitchen to get the same knife that I had developed a friendship with over the course of several nights. I sat myself in the living room and rested the knife on my lap. I cried so hard that night as I was praying to God telling Him how sorry I was for what I was about to do. I just felt so much guilt for being myself, for being gay, that I thought that ending my life might somehow redeem the sins of my being. As I was about to press the knife onto my wrist, I felt a numbness in my hands that spread throughout my entire body like wildfire. I couldn't move. It felt as if I was paralyzed. After a few moments, I regained control over my body and I just dropped the knife onto the floor. I couldn't do it. I could not end my life no matter how I wanted to. It was the ultimate escape that I have been looking for but right when I was about to do it, I couldn't find the strength. It doesn't matter whether you are religious or not or if you believe in a higher being at all. After that momentary feeling of paralysis I realized that I wasn't supposed to do what I was about to.
Back to square one. All the confusion and pain still in tact. I decided instead to pray to God to give me a heart of stone. It was the first night that I prayed for something so sincerely and earnestly. It would later become a prayer that I would stick to all through the remainder of my high school until I graduated from uni. One day I woke up and didn't feel like I was the same person I was before. I used to be full of dreams and hopes and that one night changed it all. I was jaded beyond compare and so bitter that I developed a form of emotional barrier that would help me cope up with pain more effectively - cynicism.
The ensuing years didn't help much either in giving me a better way of coping with pain. All I know is that so far, my way has been effective. Unsurprisingly, there is a twist to this story which I would tell you hopefully tomorrow. Stick around for the rest of the story. I don't guarantee any grand reveal or even a compelling conclusion to this story. All I have are the details of the life of a person who has constantly battled depression. Who knows, you might be in the same boat as I am and if you are, you might find this letter an interesting point to think about. Whether it helps you or not, my only goal is for you to know that you are not alone because more often than not, that is the reassurance that we all need to help us get through the hustle and bustle of our internal struggles - those that we keep to ourselves because they are too painful to share to the world which has shunned us first.
xoxo
QB
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