I hate the fact that my tears are elicited so easily. I’m weak and I know it.
Part of me really, really wants to go see someone — a counselor, a psychiatrist, a doctor — about the shit that’s going on with me internally now but I know that once I reach the little room and am sat in front of an unfamiliar person the tears just won’t stop flowing and I’ll break down in an incoherent puddle of my own disgust and self-loathing. It’s pathetic. I’ve become an emotional mess at the most inappropriate times, scholarship interviews, public buses, restaurants. It’s so humiliating but I can’t stop myself, all I can do is grit my teeth and wait for my tears to run dry, while people stare at me and I try to look away.
It’s pathetic. It’s so, so pathetic. Yet strangely cathartic. In the midst of a depressive episode completely breaking down and losing control can be so freeing. I’ve sobbed myself hoarse alone at 3 AM in bed on multiple occasions — it’s rare that you get to vocalize your own sadness in such a… raw manner. Like a rollercoaster of pent-up emotion on its final plunge before it’s back to square one, you’re on the lift again to the next peak.
I can always sense it coming. Maybe it’s an anxiety attack, or just a premonition. My heart beats so hard I fear it will burst through my ribcage. It only takes a nudge — a text, a picture, a tap on the shoulder — to start the waterworks and send me spiralling into sadness (or is it madness?).
Today is World Suicide Prevention Day. I saw an ad about it today on Twitter by the local NGO Samaritans of Singapore.
It hit me that I had their SOS number saved in my phone. I don’t remember why.