Nepenthe

We played a game today. Truth or dance. The bottle spun and landed on me. I was asked which was my saddest moment in life. The first ever thing that came to my mind was a visual. A sight of my sister in the bathtub bleeding her wrist out and crying. I felt my eyes start to water and I smiled and said that I’d start crying if I talk about it. But it seemed unfair. So I tried telling them. I could feel my voice starting to crack the second I opened my mouth. So I didn’t. I kept smiling, containing my tears because for fucks sake, we’re gathering together for the first time. At least, me and my friend for the first time.
They’re kind, they waited for me to collect myself. They’re nice. I gathered up some courage and spoke in one line, feeling the need to simply get it over with as soon as possible. I think I made them uncomfortable. I… I don’t think they were expecting such a thing. Sensitive topics when exposed to strangers make them uncomfortable, it’s a researched theme. My classmates in UG would remember the example of social discomfort talking about “speaking about your suicidal tendencies after 10 minutes of meeting a person.”

I am currently still here and typing this. My eyes are starting to water but nobody’s paying attention to me, as it should be.

This brings me to another thing I wanted to address. I was asked for something sad and the image of my sister popping up in front of my eyes is the first. I think it’ll always be the first.

I don’t think people move on from the hollowness and heartache they feel. I still haven’t. I hope they do, though. I hope I do. I hope that one day I’m able to talk about it freely. I hope that one day I put it behind me.

I think remembering her almost-lifeless body harms me more every time I recall it. I didn’t even see her physically, it was all in my imagination, the way she would’ve looked. She’s alive, I need to tell myself.

She’s alive.
She’s alive.
She’s alive.
She’s alive and that’s all that matters.

.
.
.
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But what if she wasn’t?

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You know,
When I got into the accident, I didn’t panic about dying. I honestly, swear to God, had a whole bunch of three to four seconds where I immediately wished I’d died. I prayed, “please let me be dead.”

And then I woke up and went through so much unnecessary pain and physiotherapy. So much nonsense. It hurt to live.

It hurts to live. To be alive. With this perspective, I can understand why my sister wanted to unalive herself. It truly is the most challenging.

I prayed for my death, I hoped to be free from this stupid and hurtful life. I didn’t think about anyone at that time. I didn’t care if I was being selfish. Now, the next time I get into an accident, I’ll have the same thoughts running in my head again.

My heart broke when I heard of my sister locked inside the bathroom and on the verge of successfully killing herself, but would I have held it against her? Maybe for a while. Maybe until I realised that my anger is simply misplaced and a cover for my grief. Maybe I would’ve killed myself too.

I would have understood, though.

I still would understand why someone would kill themselves, at least in this society that I’m a part of. People here are selfish. I force myself to be more selfish than them to survive. I force myself to be harsh and unkind and pushy for myself.

We’re all gonna die someday. A universal truth. It’s probably shallow and could be used as an excuse for unsavoury acts, but it makes sense to me.

I’m dying. You’re dying.

Death.

I would like to die, but I wouldn’t like anyone I know to one day simply not exist anymore. Very hypocritical, but who isn’t? It still hurts me, for a girl I knew very little. I find myself thinking about her, but I don’t think I’m worthy enough to grieve for her since I didn’t know her. She was beautiful and smart and funny and so full of life, and the adjectives that I use to describe her now, I don’t think they’re all there was to her. She wouldn’t have died if this was all there is.

I don’t mind killing myself in this horrible world but I hope and pray that you find the courage to live and survive it somehow.

I don’t know.

Maybe people who aren’t afraid of death are very lonely. Maybe they don’t fear death because they don’t find anything worthy to live for.

I have completely (hopefully) overcome and moved on from my broken-bone accident. To the point that I don’t even call it trauma anymore. I am able to narrate the whole incident without feeling the need to cry, which I couldn’t do before. I make jokes about how stupidly I had the time to put up a story on Instagram in the freaking auto ride while also carrying my wobbly arm. I used to tear up when people showed their concern. Act all tough while narrating the incident and they break my facade by being concerned, as if my life mattered. As if it matters.

I’m okay with it now. It’s pretty much over. Though, please don’t ask me if I’m okay unless you’re ready to see me breakdown and not feel an ounce of pity. I don’t pity myself, why should you? Anyways.

Have I moved on from my sister trying to suicide? Can I talk about that freely? No, not yet. I can talk to her freely about it. It’s not that I fake it, it’s just that when I’m talking to her about it, she’s right there in front of me and I don’t have the time to imagine her bleeding out in a bathroom. But when you ask me about it when she isn’t around?

I’ve talked about it to my old therapist. She said the same things you tell anyone who grieves a living person. That I’ll move on. That I need to focus on the present. That the fact is she’s alive. I need a new therapist.

But my stupid little brain. Stupid little brain with stupid little thoughts. It regresses back to that day, that afternoon at home when my parents got a call from her roommate telling us that my sister is not opening her door and that she’s concerned for her. And then the flashbacks to my cousin’s marriage. The way I had freaked out.

I feel like I’m making her suffering about myself and I feel guilty about it. I promise I’m not. I don’t want her to feel that I’m minimising her pain. I really am not. It’s just… When a person dies, people around them also lose a part of themselves.

If one day, I choose to die and successfully implement it, will you lose a piece of yourself?

As a budding psychologist, this isn’t a very good impression of me. I would prefer it to be a part of my temporary moods from which I move on. I highly doubt it will be that way though. I am old enough to think, to make my own decisions and my opinions and change my opinions when I get new information, it’s all up to me. I am thus, old enough to define my life for myself.

Sounds heavy. I’d rather be hedonistic. Kidding.

Sometimes, the meaning of life to me leans over to what existential nihilism is. The point of everything. Of living. There is nothing in this world that will make me want to live forever. Or at least, until I can live. Everything dies. Everything fades away. Memories remain, and they hurt. Memories are like a punishment for choosing to live on when you could’ve just simply died.

It’s… 5A.M.

I miss my sister. I know she’s alive. It makes me happy thinking about how I have someone to live for. How I wouldn’t want someone to lose a piece of themselves because of me.

I shall edit this post and publish it after I get some sleep. Hopefully. There are a lot of mosquitoes here, despite the repellent working. Maybe feeding mosquitoes is the purpose of my life for the next few hours.

Kthnxbye.