In May of 2016, I overdosed on Escitalopram, Aripiprazole and Clonazepam. My then boyfriend called, understandably going out of his mind with worry, and all I could slur was “Sorry.”
I was rushed to hospital, where I spent three days hungry (I wasn’t allowed to eat anything) and craving a cigarette. There was no stomach pumping, no charcoal mixture forced down my throat. Just observation.
I nearly laughed. Even at suicide, I was a failure.
So the question in my mind after getting discharged was: Now what?
What do I tell my employer about why I was out for three days? What do I tell my family and friends about why I did it? And most importantly, did my continued living mean that something better was in store, or was it going to be the same old misery I lived with?
It’s been over a year since my attempt. Now what?
Now, I know how to manage my depression better. I know to reach out to people when I feel depression’s deformed claws reaching out to pull me down.
Now, I know better than to listen to the voice in my head that says everyone will be better off without me.
Now, I’ve been trying to adopt healthy coping mechanisms such as writing and exercise.
I thought it was the end of the world. But it wasn’t. And I appeal to every single person who has ever thought of killing themselves: There is a light at the end of your seemingly bottomless misery. The good days will come again for you, as they have for me.
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Ela Kaimo, 25, from Quezon City, works as a technical recruiter and “loves cats, dogs, and sometimes even people.”