welve Steps Closer To Death

by 42

072818 | 0231

On my seventh birthday, my parents separated. I heard them yelling at each other in the middle of dawn,
and I, who couldn't do anything just covered my mouth and cried myself to sleep. The next morning, the
bed was empty. My father already left, and I was alone in the playroom he built for me hoping he would
come back and we could play again. My mother who was devastated at the time relied on alcohol, like it
was the best solution she could think of, like alcohol can heal her inner wounds. I was seven when my
mother locked me inside the house so she can go out and drink with her friends. I was seven when I first
had an imaginary friend. We played while I was chained inside our blank house, trapped within the four
corners of my mother's manipulative issues. I was seven when my own mother first hit me because I
didn't do things the way she wanted them to be done. I was seven when I first felt useless.

I was seven when I first thought about suicide.

I was eight when I knew I was different. No one befriended me, I was the weird child your parents
warned you about. I was always alone in school, watching children run around in the school covered
court as my mind kept on picturing out what would it be like if I had friends. I was always on top of the
class, and I used that to gain some friends by letting them copy my answers and teaching them during
recitation. I was eight when I was too desperate to have friends, when I was desperate to fit in what
society thinks is normal. Because at eight, I was the only one who talked to myself, I was the only one
who kept on saying I see things and no one believed me because they couldn't see what I see. I was eight
when I can hear voices and people thought I was weird. I was eight when my classmates stayed away
from me like I was crazy.

I was eight when I knew something was wrong with me.

I was nine when we left my hometown and moved to live the Manila dream. I never had friends when
we first went here. I became too scared to socialize, too scared to even talk to people. I thought things
would be different here, but no. It was just the same thing, I was just in a different place with different
people. I studied like it was just a goddamn routine; I wake up, I go to school, go home and play in play
station places near our house. That was what life was like for me back then, and who would have
thought I'd still live the same routine now. I was nine when I tried socializing, when I begged for some
validation from people, when I tried to crave for assurance that maybe in this place I am somebody's
friend, that maybe someone sees me as a company. I was nine when I learned that I might never have
friends. My imaginary friends were my only friends, and they made me feel like they're the only ones I
got.

I was nine when my imaginary friends were no longer imaginary.

When I was ten, nothing much happened.

I was eleven when I knew no one would ever understand.

Tik.

Tok.

Tik.

Tok.

Tik.

Tok.

Twelve.

I was twelve when I first tried to cut. The sharp edge of a piece of broken mirror ran through my wrist
like a gentle touch, blood flowed down my hand yet I didn't feel a thing. I stared at it like I was an
emotionless soul in the fields of Asphodel, looking for the lost feelings and memories that faded. I was
only twelve when I had trouble sleeping, when my mother said it was because I was too into the internet
and cable television, but no. Because at twelve, I stared at the ceiling of my room, wondering what life
would be like if my loving mother continued her abortion, something that she kept on reminding me
every single day like it was my fault I was born. What she didn't know is every single day, I also dream I
wasn't born and all of this is a fucked up nightmare. I graduated grade school at twelve and my mother
was too busy with her job to even see me accept my diploma. I tried not to cry nor hate her. I became an
understanding person who kept on creating reasons why people disappoint me.

I was twelve when I learned the beauty of self-harm.

At thirteen, I got kicked out of a Science High School. People would look at me with blank stares saying I
could have done better, and I know they're right. That was the first time I ever felt so worthless, like I was
a living disappointment to every single person I know. At thirteen, my mother was too disappointed to
even look at me for she did everything she had to to give me a better life. But I failed. What she did not
know is I did not fail because I wanted to, but because every time I needed her love and support, all I got
was a look of hatred and disappointment. That was one of the times I needed a mother and all I had was
a woman who would always remind me— my birth is one of the things she'd change if given a chance. At
thirteen, I wanted to have a mother but all I had is someone who'd always see me as her biggest
mistake.

At thirteen, I wanted to kill myself.

I was fourteen when I moved to a different school. I was elected as the head of the class, and even then
my teachers would ask me why I didn't stay in my old Science High School. I didn't have the guts to tell
them the truth, so I lied. I told them that I was given a chance but I declined, when in reality I had no
chance. Things were too fucked up and I was a mess that wanted to give up. At fourteen, I wanted to just
die and everything not because I wanted to, but because that was the only good thing I could think of. At
fourteen, the only thing I could do is hope that things'll be better.

At fourteen, I hoped things will eventually be okay.

At fifteen, I know they won't be.

I was sixteen when I started writing stories, when I started turning my dark empty thoughts into
defeaning silent pleas. I was just sixteen when I first wrote the story of my death and people began
clapping at me like my death note was their favorite story. I became faceless, nameless, an anonymous
voice trying to make a difference to save people because he could no longer save himself. At sixteen, I
realized that I started waiting for my own death, hoping it would knock on my door anytime soon to end
my misery, but days passed by and things just got worse. I was sixteen when I had a toxic relationship
with a guy that didn't go well, I was sixteen when my own grandmother kicked me out of the house, I
was sixteen when my mother only gave me an allowance while I lived with my now ex-boyfriend because
I had nowhere to go to. I was sixteen when I starved myself to death cause I thought it was the only thing
I could do. I was sixteen when I first tried to kill myself, and it almost worked.

At sixteen, I survived my first suicide attempt.

At seventeen, I wished I didn't.

I'm now eighteen. Even until now, suicide attempts are my last resort in case things get fucked up
because I know no matter how fuck up tomorrow will be, I can always kill myself. Death has always been
and will always be my safe haven. People think it was easy to be happy because hey, you're a great writer
with a low-key fandom and you have a lot of people who wanted to befriend you, why are you still sad?
Most of the time, people believe that every problem can be fixed once you keep up a happy attitude but
they're wrong. Happiness is not an easy choice, it's not always a part of the choice because maybe…
maybe some of my friends are still alive, reading one of my fucked up stories about how we fought our
demons—but no. They left me in the middle of a cliff, hanging myself onto a tiny piece of rock, hoping
that it will fall so even for the last time, we can all swim in the river of tears together. Right now, I'm an
eighteen year old kid telling people the tale of how I tried to survive a life that I didn't want in the first
place. A life that I hope was just given to someone else who could have done better. I'm now eighteen,
and I am still writing stories and tales of people with the hopes that maybe they could save what I no
longer had the chance to save—myself. We all have stories to tell, don't let your voices be unheard.
Don't.

I am now eighteen, and this, is not my first suicide note