Clockwork

Ever since I was a teenager, I’ve thought of killing myself on multiple occasions. Most of the reasons would be because of feelings of inadequacy, helplessness and frustration. When I was a little girl, I would often think of running away from home. I would plan which bag I would take, which clothes I would take away, and would decide whether to take the bus or a taxi to wherever I was going to run away to. I have been planning my escape since I was nine.

I am not an only child. I was not abused. I did not come from a poor family; we were not rich but we managed. I did well in school, going to a Catholic elementary school then to a specialized science high school. I was accepted into a special med school program in my country’s best medical school which takes only 40 students per year. I had friends. I laughed with them, went on trips and had adventures. I followed TV shows, learned how to cook, read fantasy novels.

But like clockwork, the thoughts always come into my head every so often. I would think about drinking pills, taking my new kitchen knife and stabbing my heart, jumping off the roof of my building, taking the bus and never looking back. I would imagine having terminal cancer, being in a car crash, getting stabbed by a robber. I would imagine how people would find out that I was gone. Will they be sad? Surprised? I lived alone, so who will find my body first? My neighbor? Or the security guard? Who will come to my funeral?

I know these thoughts are just because I need or want attention. I don’t know why. I’m a self-professed socially awkward person. I don’t like being around people. I find feelings and emotions exhausting, I don’t like talking or thinking about them. I am very self-conscious, always aware of what people might think of me. There are times when I feel that I don’t really care about what other people think of me, but I know that deep down, I am the one who cares the most.

I always say that I hate being around people. But, I think that the person that I really hate being around is myself. I’ve never liked being me. I know that everyone has something that they don’t like about themselves. That’s normal. But me, I don’t like anything about myself. I always end up hating what I’ve done, what I feel and what I do. When I look back into my past, I find that I’ve always disliked myself. I always wonder how people can stand being around me when I can’t even stand myself.

I do have friends. But I’ve never had the kind of friend that I know will always be there for me. All of my friends have their own group of friends to spend time with. I always feel as if I’m the one intruding on their time. I always feel as if I’m an outsider who is just glad to have the opportunity to spend time with other people. I think it’s because I’m always just happy to be accepted because I feel that I’m not really worth anything.

I don’t know where this feeling of inadequacy comes from. I’ve always felt that way. I would often think of running away from home so that my parents and siblings will have a better life. I often think that their lives would be better if I wasn’t there. I would lessen their suffering and would take away one of their problems if I just left. So I want to leave. Escape.

I am now 25 years old. I’ve never attempted suicide. I’ve thought about it. I’ve planned it. But I’ve never gotten the courage to do it. Why? Because at the end of all things, I’m scared and afraid. My life hangs in limbo, just waiting for the scales to tip. Till then, the thoughts will come like clockwork and I’ll see if maybe I’ll decide to stay or go.