It was Thursday last week that the note went viral. We had lost another person who couldn’t deal with the demons that plagued her. A note, two bottles of sniper, and a hard dose of determination to escape the web of pain were all it took.
Cold as ice was all she was as the fingers of death gripped her. No, she didn’t fight as it reached for her but succumbed to its cold embrace. In a few moments, she was gone. It was too late to save Ego, and so we added her to the list of those we had to say RIP to; a list that just two days before, we had to update with yet another victim.
Ego was a stranger I just happened to read about, but there was something in me that felt closer to her. Maybe it was because I understood too well what it felt like to fight those marauding demons in your head with every breath you took. I knew what it felt like to be utterly helpless and pretend to be okay despite being surrounded by friends and family. But something in me hesitated from speaking up. And so, I kept mum.
Ironically, for the first time in years, the death of Ego brought a bit of light into my world, following the passionate posts put up on social media platforms that trended for hours unending.
“Be Kind!”
“Everyone is fighting a battle you don’t know anything about, stop the unnecessary hate!”
“I am sorry if I have ever said anything hurtful to you, I never realized how it chaffed at your self-esteem”
“Call me whenever you need to talk, I will always be available for you.”
I could go on and on. And I genuinely smiled; the kind of smile that offered comfort to a heart that desperately wanted to believe that there was still hope for humanity. And so, I forced myself to hold on a little while.
Every morning, I would wake up and glance at the stack of drugs stashed in the purple bag by my bedside, willing myself to crawl out of the sinking hole of depression. No, the drugs were not to make me feel better. On the contrary, they were a reminder of the numerous suicide attempts I had made in a bid to let go and have it all end. But somehow, my body always held on to this miserable existence.
Oh, how I yearned for the courage to speak up!
Yesterday, I eventually did. It felt strange dredging up all those feelings and unloading them, but I hoped for a sign that life was worth living, I guess. All I consoled myself with were the messages of hope shared this week. I fervently prayed that even a little would be directed my way. I knew I was at a crossroads – let go and fall down the deep end or grab on harder and climb the ladder back up to life.
For a few minutes after my post, I felt a lot lighter. And then the notifications began to come in, first in trickles, and then it seemed the floodgates crashed down. As I read each one, I could feel the blood draining from my face. No, this isn’t what was meant to happen. This wasn’t the support I envisaged would happen.
“Ogbeni, kill yourself o, na me be your papa?!”
“And so…what should we do with this information?!”
“Lmao, as if we care. You better drink acid to make it faster”
“Clout chaser, feed us with the next episode please!”
“Alaye rest, we don tire for all these una talk. Everybody has their problems. Deal with yours and stop being a coward for crying out loud!”
Maybe there were some good messages in there somewhere, but they were easily swallowed up and overshadowed. The more I read, the more the little hope I’d felt slipped away. This was the last straw that broke the camel’s back.
With the rush of the emotions that flooded me came a resignation to the fact that that the decision to end it all had been made for me.
They had all lied; no one cared. The hate was going to continue. People were never going to be kind to others, except few hours after they hear the news of yet another death. This time, perhaps mine.
…..
I morosely went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. I grabbed my purple bag and removed the pills, counting them one by one as I popped them into my mouth. More than I had ever taken. But I continued because I was not going to let my body win this time. And then…when the darkness came, I leaned towards it and held on till it overcame me.
This story is in honour of suicide victims. I hope this teaches us to be kind yesterday, today and the tomorrows to come. To comment on this, kindly input “admin” as the username and password if a prompt requests for this. This shows for first-time comments only
Love,
Diane
