Miserable Strain

Disclaimer: If by any chance you found this post, know that it is going to be a little dark. I will be mentioning my bouts with suicidal thoughts so please, please don’t read if you’re not in a good headspace. And please try to get better.

Just before the pandemic quarantines started in early 2020, I moved in to a studio unit that eventually became my own place. It was my first time living on my own, and it’s something I’ve been wanting to do since forever.

Because I work from home, the pandemic restrictions didn’t really bother me that much. I liked them, to be honest. For the first time, not going out is the norm and no one looks at me weird for not wanting to go out and see people. But, of course, said restrictions ended at some point. The world was healing (?) and going out was once again the normal thing to do.

Not for me, though. Not when my own place has become the perfect comfort zone.

I started to love the isolation. I can cry or be miserable without anyone seeing it. I can wither away without someone admonishing, pitying, or pulling me out from it.

Then the passing years became muddled. I know the pandemic times seemed like a time warp for many people, and I feel that way on a different level. All of a sudden, I realized that four years had passed and the times I interacted with people (not online) were very minimal.

At first, I thought, that was fine. I’m okay. At least no one has to see me deteriorate emotionally. And it wasn’t surprising that the passive suicidal thoughts I’ve had for the past few years have started to become more pervasive, more active.

Around November 2024, I decided to start writing letters for my family and closest friends. If I were to “leave” I must tell them how grateful and sorry I would be. They deserve that at least.

Then I started researching for the most feasible ways to do “it”—methods with the highest chances of success. Also, methods that would not be too gory to look at because someone will have to find my body. I don’t want to leave that someone traumatized too much. I don’t need to hurt people more than I should have.

Then I was preparing to buy the things I would need when it’s time, when I’m ready. I was at the point where I know I will do it in the near future. I don’t know when yet, but certainly not before I finish the letters.

As the suicidal thoughts slowly become plans, I felt a bit more willing to go outside to see my friends. I thought, I don’t have much time so might as well go out and see them now as much as I can.

But my good friends have a way of making me feel too comfortable and too safe that even the thoughts I have been trying my best to hide just come out in the open. And the next thing I know, for the first time in my life, I have let other people see me break down.

My friends…these are the people that I would take a bullet for. That’s not an exaggeration. I have very little appreciation for the life I have and have nothing to hold on to for the future, but my friends do. So at any given moment, if I had to, I can and will die so they won’t have to. That said, I have never let them see me cry—never in our decade-long friendship. That night, however, I did. I broke down in tears and have let them know that I have been feeling more ready to “leave.”

I don’t know why I decided to let them know what I have been thinking. Maybe I was a little inebriated, which rarely happens and they can attest to it. Or maybe, unconsciously, I wanted to be saved.

*********

As a response, my friends immediately made me move to their house.

I wanted to refuse—I wanted to stay in my comfort zone. But they were persistent and I felt horrible turning down their generous offer to help. I was also thinking, I can just stay with them for a few weeks then make up reasons to go back to my house.

They wanted me to move the very next day. But it was all too sudden for me. The mere thought of leaving my comfort zone was too much to handle, so to do it immediately the next day was just impossible for me to grasp. I convinced them to give me time to prepare my things, which should have taken me 3 days at most. I don’t have a lot of stuff, and I wasn’t planning on actually moving all my things.

But it took me over a week to move because, honestly, I was delaying it. I have my bubble that I have built for years, and I can’t imaging leaving it indefinitely.

Even though I’m moving in with the people I cherish the most next to my family, the thought of moving made me anxious. It terrified me. My main concern was having to interact with them all the time when my most favorable scenario would be to not talk to anyone at all for days on end. But moving to their house meant that I’ll be sharing a room with others, and everywhere in the house there will be other people that I have to interact with. I really just wanted to be alone. I love them, of course. But being alone has become my safest zone.

But I didn’t want to be an ungrateful friend, so I pushed through with the move. Not without internal struggle, though.

Of course my worries were baseless. One of my friends assured me that if I want to be left alone, I should not worry about them taking it the wrong way. If I don’t feel like interacting with them or anyone in the house, I should still be able to do so. Weirdly, it gave me comfort during the first few days of my stay.

It felt like I was stepping out of my comfort zone but doing it in a way that was not too abrupt that would scare me bring me back to my bubble of isolation.

After living with them for about three weeks, honestly, I am somehow starting to consider giving life a chance. If my friends are this willing to save me (and they did so with such urgency), maybe I should consider saving myself, too.