Hi guys. It’s 2am here in Singapore, but here I am, because my brain is driving me crazy. I’m hoping that writing might help me feel less crazy, which is why I’m typing out this post. This was actually the original intent of my blog – for me to somehow release all the tension in me by writing a bunch of really depressing posts. Oh well, I guess that it’s just as well that I’ve started writing book reviews. But I digress.

I’m an adrenaline addict. And I’m addicted to a specific kind of adrenaline – the kind caused by self-harm. So I guess that means that I’m indirectly addicted to self-harm. When I was at an exceptionally low point at my life, I used it as a coping mechanism, but now I can’t seem to stop. Every time I’m upset, every time I’m angry, every time I’m frustrated, I just feel the need to take the blade to my skin. If I may say so, I think that I’ve been doing exceptionally well so far. I’ve only relapsed twice ever since I recovered (which was nearly two years ago). But today, the urge is especially strong, and I’m scared that I’m not going to be able to resist it. Which I guess is why I’m talking about it now.

I rarely ever talk about my depression. When I was at my worst, my classmates would probably have seen it, but I’ve never said anything to most of them out loud. I never even told my best friend (outright, anyway). As for the few that I told, some of them were my close friends (they knew the cause), but they drifted from me during that period. Some of them I told because my depression could affect our group project. Besides those few close friends, the only other people who knew were my parents, form teacher and family doctor. I just couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone else. Especially after those close friends left, I felt that if I told any other people, I would lose them too. So I decided to keep everything to myself. And all the sadness, rage and pain buried me alive.

At the start, the self-harm was just to cope with a little loneliness. Initially, it was manageable. Those close friends were still there. I could still cope. But when they left, it was like a dam had broken, and all the loneliness and pain came rushing out,  drowning me in a wave of misery. I couldn’t take it. I desperately needed something to help me float, and that something happened to be self-harm. It was my life raft, so I clutched onto it for dear life, not realising that it was on fire. After floating along for a little while, just glad to not be drowning, I realised that I was also on fire. And I was burning. Badly. I needed to put it out quickly. But the only way to stop being on fire was to get into the water, and I couldn’t do that. Not again. Between the fire and flood, what was I supposed to choose?

I very nearly chose to crush myself against a fallen tree. It felt like the simplest way out. Compared to being burnt to death on the raft or being drowned in the river, it seemed like the least painful way out of an impossible situation.

I have no idea as to how I managed to survive. Whether it was sheer willpower or plain cowardice, I have absolutely no clue. Sometimes I wish I had gone, but then I say to myself, “You’ve already made it this far. It’s not like you’re back there again. Your situation is much better now.” And I guess I’m right. I am in a much better place now. I won’t be revisiting that charred life raft. Not today.