it's kind of a funny story (but its not, really)

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trigger warning: mentions of suicide

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Sunday, 21st August, 2.30 a.m.

I had finally decided that I wanted to die.

There wasn't a single doubt left, not a crumb of desire to live, not a single thought that could change my mind. 

I'd found myself here a lot of times in the past ten years, but there would always be something stopping me from actually doing it, mainly that I didn't want to hurt the people who loved me. But this time, even that wasn't enough. I simply didn't care anymore. All I knew was that I was so god damn tired, and I wanted to die, I had to die. 

I poured the pills into my hands, staring at them for a few seconds.

I looked up and figured I had nothing to lose, so I spoke to the void and asked for a sign. 

"If I'm not meant to do this, show me a sign. Anything."

Nothing. 

And i'd have expected nothing less from exactly that; a void.

I put them all in my mouth. The last time I was here, I had spit them back out. But not this time. I took a swig of some water and downed them all in one go. 

I sat with the knowledge of what I'd done. 

Cross legged, staring forward at nothing. 

I felt some sort of relief. "Finally," I thought to myself, "it's done."

I'd done my prior research on committing suicide by overdosing on paracetamol, and I knew it was a slow acting death. I'd feel nothing for the first day. But after a day or two it would slowly fuck up my liver, and I'd die a painful, inevitable death. 

I sat on it some more.

An hour passed by. 

Amidst the tranquility and peace in finally breaking the barrier and taking actual action to kill myself, there it was. That small, annoyingly persistent voice, out of nowhere. 

"Get it out."

I tried to ignore it.

"Get it out."

No, I won't give in. Shut the hell up, me. 

"GET IT OUT."

The voice grew more and more desperate. But it wasn't a feeling. I didn't feel the urgency. It was just those damn three words, persisting, repeating over and over, like a fly constantly whizzing past my ear that I couldn't get rid of. 

Something took over me and suddenly my body wasn't my own. I got up and went to my brothers room. Sat down on his bed. He asked me what was wrong and I managed to blurt out in between tears that I'd swallowed 13 panadols. 

Panic ensued. 

We told our mum before he proceeded to bring me to the emergency room at HKL.

4.30 a.m.

I was starting to feel nauseous, and a headache was building its way up. 

The doctors had given me a bed and hooked me up to an IV line. 

I'd already explained what happened to the multiple doctors who checked in on me. They'd taken my blood and they'd injected some medicine into my IV line to halt the effects of the paracetamol before it could get any worse.

And the whole time, I was laced with so much regret, crying and sobbing and squeezing my eyes shut trying to make everything go away.

It wasn't regret for what I'd done, there was only regret for asking for help. For telling my brother. 

I just kept wishing that I'd died already, instead of giving into that voice (which I'd figured at that point was my basic, animal, survival instincts talking) I knew i wanted to die, why did i let myself ask for help?

I kept wishing that I'd kept my mouth shut and let the overdose take its natural course, and only have people find out when it was too late and there'd be nothing anyone could do. 

10.30 a.m.

At this point, I was already numbed out. The nausea was still there but the headache had subsided. I was falling in and out of sleep. They'd already sent two people from the psychiatric department to see me. I didn't know how many times I was supposed to recant my story and the reasons behind why I did what I did, and relive all the same grief and loss and guilt that had led me there in the first place. 

But finally one of the psychiatrists sat down and explained to me what would happen. They'd keep taking my blood every few hours to check the paracetamol levels in my blood and i'd have to be admitted for one or two days to be monitored. So now, it was just a matter of waiting to be warded. I took this time to let the people closest to me know about what happened and where I was. YY came to see me and stayed with me for a while.

The hospital gave me food but I couldn't really eat. I didn't have the appetite. 

2.30 p.m.

More waiting.

5.30 p.m.

Still waiting.

10.30 p.m.

My admittance was cleared and a bed was finally available. They wheeled me up to the medical ward I'd be staying at. It was a large room with what I assumed had up to 30/40 beds, separated only by curtains for some privacy. I changed into the hospital uniform and settled into my bed. I tried to take in my environment, but it was mostly dark and I couldnt see that much, but from what I could tell, most of my neighbours were elderly women. The psychiatrist suggested that I shouldn't be left alone, so my mother came to accompany me. 

I was mostly fine at this point. I mean, physically. The nausea was mostly gone and I just felt extremely exhausted, seasoned with the same regret, and guilt for putting my family through so much hassle.

There wasn't much else to do, so I just slept.

Monday,  22nd August, 4.00 a.m.

They woke me up to take more blood.

8.30 a.m.

The doctors were making their morning rounds. I was told that the paracetamol levels in my blood were still high and I'd have to be warded for another day. I slept most of the time. Only woke up to eat, or whenever the nurses needed to take my blood pressure or check my sugar levels. 

3.00 p.m.

A nurse woke me up for tea time. I was eating my banana muffin when the aunty next to me called out to me to get my attention.

"Jie jie," she said.

I turned to look at her. She mumbled something in mandarin. I shook my head and told her I'm not Chinese and I don't speak Mandarin. She laughed politely and said "wah but muka you macam Cina la!" I just gave a half-hearted, wry smile. She tried making more conversation but I pretended not to hear her. I felt bad, but I was so drained, and if there was ever a time for me to get a pass for not being chatty with a stranger, it was definitely then, when I was stuck in bed recovering from a suicide attempt. 

4.00 p.m.

They sent another psychiatrist to assess me. This one had the classic, Asian, guilt trip method to her counseling. You know, the ones where they say "what if you had done this wrong and ended up being a vegetable?" "What if you had organ failure and you could never live normally?" And the best of all, "if you have problems, just do better." 

And that was when my worldview was shaken and I found my will to live.

Not.

She gave me homework to do for the night. "Research on good coping mechanisms," she said, before leaving me to it and telling me she'd be back tomorrow. 

Tuesday, 23rd August, 3.30 a.m.

I'm pretty sure someone just died.

I was already waking up every hour and at this point of the night I heard some chaos and fussing over someone in the bed behind mine. I tried to continue sleeping but still woke up every hour.

9.00 a.m.

My suspicions were confirmed. My mother told me that an elderly aunty had passed away in the night and they'd left her body there until 6a.m. before it was wheeled out of the ward.

The doctors came to check on me and told me that my blood was back to normal and I was cleared to be discharged, even though my blood pressure was low. And honestly, I felt like shit. I couldn't figure out why I felt so tired even though I had just been sleeping most of the time, when it suddenly hit me that I'd been lying in a hospital for the past two days recovering from a paracetamol overdose. It hadn't really clicked in my head. I was so busy worrying about what my family and friends were thinking and how affected they were that I didn't even realize I never gave myself a second to absorb what I was actually in the hospital for. My body was fighting for its life to flush out all the toxin and I hadn't even really given it a second thought. No wonder I was so damn tired.

Or maybe it was also the fact that I hadn't showered in three days and I felt disgusting. I just wanted to go home and take a goddamn shower. 

4.00 p.m.

The psychiatrist returned. There was no counseling this time, just the mention that "you might be depressed" (as if that's news to me) and she'd be starting me up on some new anti-depressants and scheduling therapy for me. Oh, and the standard "you have so much life to live don't waste it" speech. I just love the classics. 

7.00 p.m.

I was finally out of the hospital. In half an hour I was already home. 

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I wish I could tell you all that I had a suicide attempt, was near death, and I had an epiphany that made me want to live again. But that's not the truth. I still don't really want to live. I still don't see the point in anything, and I truly believe that nothing will ever make me feel better again. I know that at the end of "its kind of a funny story", the book by Ned Vizzini, where i took inspiration from for the title of this blogpost since its similarly themed, the protagonist comes to appreciate the smaller things in life and leaves his hospitalization with renewed vigour to live, but that's not me. That's always the part of books or media like these that I seem to miss out on. I can relate heavily to the emptiness, the wanting to die, the feeling of hopelessness, but I can never seem to relate to the end of the book that makes it seem like there's a point to all this, that there'd be a moment where my brain flips and I realise the meaning of life. I wish I could relate to that, but in all honesty, I dont.  

All I know is that there is some higher power that doesn't want me to die yet, or at least, is making it incredibly fucking difficult for me to die on my own terms. Im not entirely sure why, but i guess im just too tired to fight it anymore. And for now, I'm alive. So I might as well just keep going, taking it day by day, and seeing where the winds take me. 

I'm sorry that there's no particularly positive note to end this on, but then again, this isn't a book. This is my life. This is my honest truth. I don't get to craft a happy ending and will it into existence. I just have to take what I have and work with it however best I can. 

I'm not entirely sure why I wrote this, or wanted to share it with the world, I suppose it's because I feel like these kinds of experiences are not talked about enough. More often than not, we only know about it when it's already too late, when the deed is already done. And if my written experience can make anyone at all feel seen, and get the help they need, then I know that I've done at least one thing right. I guess it also serves as a reminder amidst glossed over, filtered content on social media where we're so used to only seeing the good things in people's lives, that everyone, everyone, has hidden struggles. We can't afford to forget that, because it's what makes us human, and it's what keeps us kind. 

If you find yourself being able to relate to anything I've said, please, get help, so you can stop yourself before you get to the place and state of mind I was in. And trust me, it's a really shitty state of mind to be in. If you feel yourself start to slip, don't give your mind the chance to snowball into it. Keep your mind busy. Go out, meet your loved ones, take a class, take a walk. Go to therapy. Reach out for help. An idle mind really is where depression grows, so, you know, try not to be idle. And I know firsthand that sometimes this isn't enough, but remember the people who love you. No matter how bad the pain gets, it's never worth it to pass it on to people who love you and don't deserve it. They want to see you live. So live. Even if it hurts and sucks. Just live. 

MALAYSIAN SUICIDE HOTLINES

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