Depression comes in different forms. Contemplating the choice of death doesn’t make one depressed. I don’t know about you; but I’m not depressed. I don’t think I am. I could be, though. This isn’t my decision to make. I don’t dread to visit a physiatrist. They’d ask what my problems are; and get paid for it. I don’t really understand, I already know what my problems are. If I must address a few that I had acknowledged as problems, I would have to start with my family. They aren’t great. You may, or may not understand. It depends on how you were raised, the background you have, your morals, and how easily you would judge a person. My mother might be leaning to the crazy side, while my farther to the absent side. Over all, I’ve been raised in a mad house.
It depends, really – in comparison, it could have been much worse. My parents haven’t tried to kill each other, but racks of ceramic plates have crashed inside these walls.
I’ve been beaten. Not with decent slaps on my , mind you.
There had been kicks, with shoed feet, on my face.

I am offended as a human being, much less as a part of family, or even less with the thought being their own flesh and blood. I had been a choice they had decided to take. With , struggling for nine months, and further – to raise me, until I could stand on my own.
Does anger crumble a life’s work that easily?
Maybe I forgot to wash that dish I ate in, or maybe I haven’t washed my pile of clothes, or maybe I didn’t do that thing they wanted me to do. Can you kick someone in the face for that?
I’m a forgetful person. It’s in my nature. People who know me, know me.

I feel dutiful to take care of them.
To love someone, is not a duty.

I believe I am incapable of it.
I had cried over the reasons for years, since I had started to understand where I stand, exactly. But those painful years are gone now.
Words no longer hurt me.
I haven’t gone numb. I feel every syllable of anger in my bones.
I feel every ring of disappointment in my ears.
It is just that my heart nor my brain is no longer reacts.
This is life.

It may not be so to you,
but this is my reality.

Every day I wake up to, I wake up to people who surround me that I do not love, or cherish.

It’s hard to live.

I contemplate on death in a daily basis. I live in a high building. I’ve thought of myself falling, head down. I wonder how much it would hurt until it would all stop. Maybe it would only hurt for a split second until my skull would crash into tiny little red blots of bone and flesh. Will I have a final glance of my face would look like, if my brain had come just out? With eyes rolling back, would I see someone rush to me? Or would anyone rush to me at all? Would they cover their eyes in disgust? Will someone throw up next to my crashed face? What will happen afterwards? How will they put me in a straight line to fit into a six foot box? Will it be left covered during my funeral, because the chatty, disrespectful guests who would come to sip on the iced coffees my mom would serve, be disgusted by my gruesome true nature? I wonder who will cry. Will my sisters understand that I am gone, forever? When I’m no longer here, which one of them would move into my room, I wonder?
I wonder what would happen after the day I am buried in this hole of a world, to become one with it.

Probably nothing.
The world would go on.
Someone will wake up to a cup of sweet coffee put on their lap by someone who cares.
And I, would be lamely dead, missing out.

If I chose to die from jumping off the building, these are my wishes.
Do not rearrange my fall.
Bury me with frozen dead limbs that have fallen to all sides, lifted from elbows and knees like a new born spider. Do not dress me in white. If I chose to die, I will dress as I feel like.
Do not put chemicals in me.
Bury me once I am dead. Do not hold a ceremonious funeral. A single priest may visit me. Feed him with red rice, dhal curry, moms’ homemade puny cutlets (two of them as they are very small, they are never satisfactory), onion salad, pumpkin curry, spicy fish curry, and papadam. Tell him that I’ll find a way to let him know if afterlife exists.
Do not feed these people who had not cared about me thinking that it will do me good in afterlife.
Bury me next to someone who died of cancer.
Maybe I might meet them in afterlife, and he’d give me a loud slap on my shoulder and start to cry. He’d accuse me of leaving my life while I had the most perfect life. He’d say that he would have lived it differently. Bury me next to someone who wanted to live. Bury me next to someone who can give my worthless life value.
Maybe someone from my afterlife can make me feel that way.
I wonder if it will hurt then.

This is a good way to die.
Pain will be immense, but there will be no struggling.
Death will be instant and guaranteed.

I also have considered death by poisoning.
You would know in case I would break a good amount of thermometers.
Heavy metal poisoning is irreversible. The doctors can’t flush my stomach and expect me clean. But this is not instantaneous, and will possibly include pain and obvious symptoms.
This would be dramatic, I think. Of course, falling off six stories high is dramatic too, but I will be dead during the good part.
In case of heavy metal poisoning, I should keep strong. I cannot waver once I had swallowed it down.
I will die.

So they’d take me to a hospital and the doctors will run a test and fumble telling them that I had killed myself, and that nothing can be done.
Maybe she would kick me in a face again.
She would be angry, wouldn’t she? Hahaha, I wonder how they would react.
I would die any minute in a span of five hours and I wonder what they would do then.

If I wished to be excused with this laptop and internet; would I be?
Do they have anything to tell me, even in my dying hours?
I would probably say good bye to everyone I love. I could leave each a sweet message, and thank them for being with me.
Ah, it will be hard not to want to live.
It’s not because I don’t want to live, that I will chose to suicide. People kill themselves, because they don’t want to live like how they are living now. At one point, you just can’t see the silver ropes and you wish yourself dead, because second chances are far from reach. Things around a person can be changed. You could move cities, associate new companions, breathe different air; and yet, a person itself, to be changed, is not as simple.
Sometimes, these people aren’t just running away from the people that surround them.
Sometimes, they’re running away from themselves.

Does it sound like a curse from a fairy tale, to never be able to truly love someone?
To not have emotions, to not be hurt by constant insults, or degradation of importance of life…
what have I become?
A monster.

I am still young.
Reality had always been cruel to the ones who step off the comfort zone.
I will give myself more time.
Time is the only legitimate healer I believe in.
I’ll wish on a star that I’ll meet people who I will love.

I do not know since when it had become so important to me to love humans. I’ve realized that among the reality that keeps the world rolling forward; what’s more important is happiness.
I am a sad, sad person. Before I wallow in my self-pity, and decide I would rather be dead, I’ll keep my head rolling for a little bit more.

Because I’m still sane.
Slowly I’d trip over the edge, but please.
I do not wish to live as a crazy person.
Until I truly fall into depression,
until I truly crumble,
I will keep going.

So, dearest death, to whom I and them and everyone is equal,
When I come to you, someday, one day, one of these days,
accept me,
by whole.

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