My Second Attempt at Suicide

I realized long ago that these demons that haunted me ever since I was a child don’t really go away. They grasp with claws and never let go. Clinging like parasites and sooner rather than later, they become these ugly insecurities that somehow manages to shape you. Suddenly there it is, compartmentalization becomes me. Most often, I pride myself how easily I can do it.

I know rejection very well since it looked me in the eye when I was just seven years old. I would never forget the mocking voices which had echoed so close to me for two years. Or their backs as they walked away from me that day it finally hit me. It is both funny and tragic – how I managed to put up with such sham and crap. But I guess when people desperately want to belong somewhere, they can put up with anything before they crack. Even six and seven year olds. And although I remember thinking how good it felt to finally end it, the damage has been done and the consequences had been imprinted: If you’re going to ask me to imply from your actions, to presume and to assume something that’s actually good for me, then I’d tell you quite honestly that I can’t do that. I’m not built that way. My default setting has always and sadly, will always be:

“The bad stuff is easier to believe. You ever notice that?” 

P.S.: The title is figurative. My First Attempt at Suicide was when I was in third year college when our Psychology professor told us to make a 10-page autobiography and I just couldn’t quite skip this part of my life.


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