I am done with life. I am scared because suicidal thoughts coming back is an issue for me again. I don’t want to die. I want to live and be a writer who tells people stories. But with every passing day, the hope, joy, and optimism are shredding to pieces, and I am having difficulty holding on to them.

I am running on fumes looking for chances to give up and let go of my ambitions and dreams. I used to see the light at the end of the tunnel, but now I see only darkness wherever I look. I think about putting an end to my misery once and for all, but somehow, I am stopping myself. I don’t know for how long I can restrain myself.

I want to be isolated and don’t be bothered by anyone. I uninstalled all social media apps from my phone, including WhatsApp, to separate fake people from the real friends and family who care about me. Not to my surprise, no friend has contacted me yet, and I am not expecting them to contact me either. I am talking to my parents out of obligation because I don’t want to talk with them about mental health issues. After all, I am sure that they are incapable of understanding.

Growing up in a home where your every action is scrutinized, you are yelled at and dissed for not performing well in academics. A home where discussions about mental health were non-existent: a home where all you were made aware of is to study, become an engineer or a doctor, get a well-paying job, get married, have kids and die serving the needs of your kids—a home where you were deprived of being curious about anything else.

I don’t know how I was born into such a family where nobody has any ambitions or goals to improve their lives. The only conversations are about studying and working at a decent-paying job. I wonder what my moment when a butterfly fluttered its wings was, and I became ME:

I had to keep my thoughts buried deep within me for most of my life, but they are resisting being held captive for a while now. They are slowly breaking their shackles and surfacing into my consciousness, making me question everything in life, bringing alive every fear I have, leaving me emotionally vulnerable, and scared like a kid with no one in sight to help.

I am tired of putting everybody else over others. I am there for everyone whenever they need help without them even asking. I have tried asking for help but to little avail. I am questioning who really cares about me. The longing for a deep-rooted love doesn’t make things easier for me to handle.

I wake up alone every day, searching for that spark in life. I have tried for so long now to have to ignite the spark by myself. I can’t do it anymore. Every girl I have wanted to love had found some other reason to leave my love unrequited.

I have no idea about what I want to do after waking up. The tiniest wish not to die is forcing me to eat something. I used to be one of those people who loved to cook and eat every meal of the day fresh, but now I cook once and eat for 3–4 days the same thing. I sit in the shower and let myself cry to wash away the tears. Earlier, it was a happy place to get weird and interesting ideas, but now I want to drown myself.

I used to drink once every two weeks, but now I am drinking throughout the day. It doesn’t stop there, I am smoking pot every day and getting through a pack of cigarettes in a day to stop the pain, but nothing seems to be working. I think I have mastered the art of hiding my pains and emotional turmoils so well from the world that no one recognizes it. Or the other possibility is that no one actually gives a fuck about me. I am leaning more toward the second possibility, or maybe it is what I feel in my state of mind.

I want to have a shoulder to cry on, but I find myself staring at the white walls of my room, staring into nothingness and letting the tears flow.

I am unable to sleep through the night and find myself sleepy throughout the entire day. I am torn between anxiety and depression. I want to do a lot of things, but I find myself unable to do anything. I am not sure how I brought myself to be this vulnerable and write all this rant, maybe because I am high as I am writing this at 7 AM.

I don’t want to die; I need someone to come and save me. I am only 26 years old. I have my whole life ahead of me. I want to fall in love. I want to write. I don’t want to be a Data Scientist or a Software Engineer anymore. I want peace. I want calmness in my head. I want a break from others’ expectations related to my studies, my part-time job, my friends, and my family. I want to be alone and bleed through my fingers, putting words on the paper. I don’t know how long I can breathe with the burden of those expectations.

I wrote this letter to myself two months ago when I was going through an episode of depression and anxiety. Fortunately, I am doing better now, thanks to many things that transpired during the past two months.

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