Barefoot and Free.

What mental health needs is more sunshine, more candor, more unashamed conversations- Glenn Close.

It's been a couple weeks since I wrote anything serious. Main reason being that I had exams which my lovelies left me half dead. Yea, they were that hard. The other reason being that I no longer feel the urge to write, like it's straining, like I'm in some kind of writer's block which I want to believe I'm not, like I can't do this anymore. This is very worrying, because there is no way I can imagine my life without writing, I wouldn't cope at all but here I am people, failing to even update my diary. But we move and sometimes you force yourself to do even those things you feel like you no longer have the energy to face.

So today I was at home all alone, bored to death. I've got nothing new to read, nothing new to write, no people to talk to since I took a break from WhatsApp. Simply put, I was the definition of alone, lonely and bored which is not a good mental state for someone trying to make sense of the mess that my life currently is, but well that's a story for another day. So I'm a'll alone here, and I find myself observing myself, from my skin, to it's tone, my height, voice and everything. Guess what? An amazing discovery!

I discovered I have 12 scars on my hands, most of them burns and 6 scars on my legs, most of them scratches. I honestly wish these scars would disappear but no, I gotta carry them for life which I do not mind except for two particular scars which really really took me back to a dark past which I vowed to never share with anyone but for someone trying to come to terms with a past I hate so much, I think it is time I finally owned up to the demons I never wished to unveil. And it being May, mental health awareness month I think this is the best time to face it.

So I have two scars which are not like any other. They stand out, angry red marks on my inner arm. Angry at me. They are aligned like two eyes staring at me, cross, demanding answers, accusing me, calling me names. I've ignored them for a while now and I think it's high time I address them. The two twin scars are my babies of pain, of the price I had to pay for choosing to be strong rather than vulnerable. They are marks of a dark episode where I chose everyone else but myself, where no one cared about me not even myself. They are a reminder of how far gone I was, how I could have easily embraced death than cry out loud, how I wished I could die rather than live a lie.

I was in Form 2 and a lot of stuff was going on in my life. Stuff I won't say here to protect the people I love, but trust me it was really a dark time, a time where my diary was filled with Quick ways to kill one self and make it seem like an accident and a lot of Counsellors' contacts which I never dialled not even a single day in my life. It was a time when waking up was as hard as getting to sleep at night, but actually making it through the day was such a big achievement that I always rewarded myself with tears. Now that I think of it, it was crazy, I was crazy but it was real. I was 14 and depressed and no one cared.

And that's how I found an outlet in pain. If I inflicted so much pain on myself, then I wouldn't feel so hurt and lonely. More like two negatives creating a positive. So as first it was the books, I would read the saddest books ever written, books that would have my heart breaking in pieces, books that would draw even my last tear drop. It worked for a while but the mind is programmed in complex ways, the book remedy was not meant to last forever. So I had to find more effective ways. And that is when the self inflicted scars began. 

I would pour wax on my skin. Seeing it turn red was satisfying. It gave a name and a face to the pain in my heart. And so I kept doing it, till I felt I wanted something complex and fulfilling, something permanent and that's when I started burning my arms. How fulfilling it was, the smell of burning skin and the tears and the thawing of the pain in my heart. With every burn, I felt the burden lessen, with every burn I was convinced I was human too and could actually feel pain, which everyone thought because I was a teenager, I wasn't supposed to feel. So it felt good.

Till one night I actually felt I really needed to die. I felt that death was better than anything else and I had everything ready for the final crossover. Talk of mission gone wrong, what a joke I was. I'm glad I was not bold enough to do it, that is one moment I will always respect my cowardice, one time I will always say f*** bravery and raise hands to the fear that gripped me when I thought of dying, no achievement, no legacy and just fading into the night like a ghost. The idea of being forgotten or being condemned for the way you chose death over life, I could never be the one who cut short their own life.

But my 14 year old self did not see it as that. I saw it as betrayal to a conviction I had that death was the only way out. I viewed it as failure of executing a plan that had been my brain child for weeks. And so I had to pay the price. That is how I got the two scars. I would burn a lollipop stick by the candlelight and drop the burning contents on my delicate inner arm. It was satisfying, it was penance and I deserved it. That is how I still got the scars a reminder of how far gone I was, how self destructive depression had made me, how I found comfort in pain, how with more pain, I felt more alive.

What happened afterwards is a story for another day. The good news is I realised that this was not life, my siblings needed me and I also needed me. I had many dreams to achieve and if I was bold enough to choose life over death, I was bold enough to choose anything and I chose myself, my life and the people I loved. I chose to face my fears, I chose to confront them and I lived.

But what I'm trying to bring across is that such stories are real. Depression knows no age or person. It has no one size fits all cape. Last week my friends and I had a pretty serious argument on this self inflicted pain issue to ease pain. Sad to say, most of them dismissed it as a lame attempt at getting attention and stuff. All I can say is most of these things happen every passing day but it goes unnoticed.

The reason why it goes unnoticed is depressed people never speak out about it. And reasons why people never speak out about it vary but mostly because people will always laugh and dismiss it as attention seeking or trying so hard to live a white life. My parents dismissed it as having read too much fiction. Society has always been judgmental but when it comes to mental health issues, their judgemental sides border on the lines of insensitivity hence people will always have to choose carrying the burden alone than be the subject of every bored person in society.

The other reason why people never talk about is fear of being treated differently  once you share your woes. Like we are so misinformed about mental health that we do not know how to treat people who open up to us. The worst being pity. It legit sucks when everyone starts being extra nice or treating you like you're some fragile precious porcelain. Being depressed doesn't make people any different, so don't be extra nice because they opened up to you. Be you, make them comfortable around you like they always were, treat them as normal as they are, trust me, if it was pity they wanted they would have asked for it directly.

So now that this chapter of my life is over and I have embraced the fact that there is more to life than death, I want to say I look at my scars and be reminded that they are not a sign of pain but a mark of healing.

A sign that we go through moments of darkness that we plan the worst but still we emerge as victors in a new sun filled morning.

A reminder that truly we are like the moon going through phases of emptiness only to be full again.

A souvenir of battles we fought alone, they broke us yes, but they never destroyed us.

A sign that everyday is a blessing, that one small rushed decision could have stopped an entire process of a life that is now so fulfilling.

So be kind to yourself. Don't let your battles defeat you, I know it's not easy but fight your way to your ultimate victory because it is all worth it. Free yourself, go barefoot, free and wild.

Choose yourself over everything else!

#MentalHealthAwareness

P.S: A WORK OF FICTION.