If the universe had a plan
The first time I attempted suicide, I was 9. I had thought of three different ways. The first option was through the window. I always fantasized about flying, so why not test the theory? The second option was to tie the rugrat sheets from the top bunk; I was small enough to hang. The final choice was to drink the neon blue and green lava lamp liquids that reminded me of myself. We just slowly exist alone until someone notices us.
If it was the universe’s plan for me to die, I was going to.
I decided the lava lamp was my best option, so I popped off the top and tried to turn the cap so I could drink it. I finally got it open. When I brought it to my lips and began to sip, the taste was so terrible my stomach became upset. I lay on the floor, trying to fight my inside’s feelings, trying to regurgitate the toxins that clearly signaled this was unsafe.
I am alive.
My grandmother thought I just had an upset stomach when she found me. She was the only person I didn’t want to hurt by taking my own life, so I put the lamp away. I told her I needed to throw up. As I did, I felt better, and she made me an egg soup that she always made when I was sick.
Whenever I fell into a deep depression, my chest felt like a rack of dumbbells just fell on top of me and I would cry myself to sleep. There was nothing to cull the darkness inside of me that kept me from being what I thought was normal. Only being 9 was a confusing age to be depressed and not even know what it’s called because all we ever learned was that the opposite of happy is sad. There was no spectrum to it. I grew up in a religious household that believed God could fix mental health issues if I prayed hard enough.
It was not that simple.
I decided I wasn’t ready to die and that maybe I just needed to keep pushing forward to see if things get better; perhaps the fifth grade would be different from the fourth. The older I grew, I witnessed and consumed moments of torture at school and home.
My friends at school never understood why I was so anxious and paranoid all the time, not understanding they’d never met my father. When my family would ask how I could allow myself to get bullied, they never walked in my body through my school’s halls.
I lacked emotional support from the people who were supposed to love me endlessly and friends I thought would be there for me. My worlds never coexisted beautifully; they were always battling between themselves to decide which would be the one to break me down. Eventually, I let them both win.
It was around 2010 that social media began to boom. I already had Myspace, Tumblr, and Facebook, which brought me to Instagram. I spent most of my days online, interacting with people from school, family members in other parts of the world, and blogging. It kept me distracted from the depression and anxiety that lurked beneath.
A friend from school introduced me to someone online our sophomore year that ended up being my first boyfriend. He was a senior in a different city far from me. Hence, our relationship consisted of instant messaging and Oovoo calls.
I don’t think he realized how much he took advantage of a 15-year-old girl.
I blame myself for the trauma he caused me because I let him continuously use me and return every time he pleased.
I was so wrapped in how he spoke to me, I didn’t see the abuse in his eyes. One day he left me for a friend of mine, and the tears began. I was so devastated I grabbed a bottle of pills and cried myself to sleep. The next day I began to contemplate my life and whether a world without him was one I wanted to live in.
That very day, my parents noticed I was too distracted on my phone and took it away, demanding to see what I was in tears about. I was embarrassed for them to see me beg for someone’s love to the point I wanted to end my life.
My parents knew they needed to seek the professional help I desperately needed. They found me a therapist whose office was walking distance from my house, and there, I was allowed to express my feelings.
I was against it at first, but eventually, I found the strength to tell someone I’m depressed and need help. Once I accepted that the amount of growth that came with it, it was a reality I was convinced was a dream. My therapist always pushed my writing because she felt it released the weight of not having anyone to tell how I was feeling.
I realized that I allowed toxic behaviors from people I thought cared about me from the lack of self-love. There was never a day I didn’t feed my mind the negative comments I had about myself. I let the words and actions of others determine what I thought was best for myself.
The more I began to explore my self-identity, the heaviness on my chest began to lessen. I was convinced that therapy is only for those suffering from chronic mental health issues. Still, it’s for anyone who wants to grow. I had to decide to better my mental psyche to manifest the life I want, and that’s to live happily.
There is a tremendous amount of years of trauma and hurt I’m still working on and processing. On the other hand, therapy provides me with the tools and resources I need to make that possible. It has taught me that there will be the next to try again even though there are bad days.
If the universe had a plan for me, I’d be dead, but I’m alive, and I believe it has more in store.
