“You want to die,” this is something a friend of mine, who’s also a writer, had once told me in high school after showing him a short I’d written. I had titled it “The Fruits of Sun & Gold” and I didn’t know it was about death, certainly not my death. It was a travelogue in a magical land and written as a gift to a girl for her friendship during my complicated teenhood. The most particular thing about it was my reliance on purple prose and I still think it’s a pretty story, at the very least for its sentiment.

Nevertheless, my friend had told a very ugly truth about me during my teen years, which to this day I see as perplexing. The truth was I wanted to die. Nothing made sense. I existed in a state of isolation and had to hide a loaded gun of a secret. I’m gay in a not very tolerant country, so loose lips (eyes, mannerisms, posture, tastes) could very well sink ships. I had checked all the boxes in the ‘cliché gay’ category, including a verbally abusive father.

Enter suicide. I was never serious about it, nor do I have failed attempts. My mind simply picked it up as an idea, a very powerful idea and thinking about it (fantasizing even) felt dangerous and a bit exhilarating. It’s like playing with fire, but only you couldn’t burn yourself, not physically at the very least. Of course, this was all before I understood what depression is and how it can trigger your brain into thinking in extreme, damaging ways. I couldn’t talk to anyone, because you just don’t, otherwise what would the people think. This still is the status quo here on any sort of emotional problem. Continue reading »