Prisoner of Your Own Mind

Giving In To Death

There were many moments of dispair when painful circumstances were so great that I could not muster up enough strength to get me through to the next day. There was nothing to reach back and hold onto, not in those intervals of time. To me, my surroundings would appear to be closing in on me, leaving no space for hope. The thought of suicide never left my mind, because it was real to me as were the reasons for wanting to end it all. Depression, guilt, shame, low self-esteem and most importantly being lonely for a bettter part of my life, all seemed to rule over my choices and decisions.

The pain was so great and so intense, I am amazed I never lost consciousness. Sometimes I would wish I could faint and leave my depressed-ridden reality for as long as my central nervous system permitted. Thinking about the actual method of how I would kill myself was probably the most frustrating and heartwrenching. The very idea of jumping off a bridge or hanging myself in my closet just didn't sit well with me. Why I would think to myself, as if another part of me was arguing with the intended task. How could I feel some fear of dying when I felt there was nothing to hope for and that taking my life would be the best thing that every happened to me.

Well, I couldn't do it-kill myself I mean. I didn't have it in me and I'd wonder why because the days ahead meant nothing more than more suffering and fear with no end in sight. If I was at the end of my road and couldn't possibly find another path to take, then what was this undesirable need to go on? At that time to me, I could not grasp the purpose that my life served and how it's been so devoid of happiness and vigor for so long. What point was there to hope for when everything was hopeless.

Eventually, I would accept the fact that death would be avoided that day and that I would have to tolerate my disappointing attempt to reach my goal. Thinking of what opportunity I've missed was more painful to bear than the actual occurrence of death itself. The only alternative was to perservere through the thickness of depression and self-guilt, a task which hardly ever seemed possible for a hopeless and vulnerable man like myself.

When I suddenly realized that I was staring into an abyss of pain and mortal suffering for days to come, the whole world seemed to drop in front of my eyes, leaving nothing but remnants of what life used to bring me before my pysche took a turn for the worst. At that time, which was between the ages of 15 and 22, I had endured much mental abuse by others. Every insult, every infliction of pain grounded me in a dark, lonely time of ridicule and self-doubt.