out in my headstraights by appointment only

This is the article that started this post.

A gay teen commits suicide.

Another one.

It was probably not the way I imagined my day to begin, reading about yet another teen who took his life because he was bullied. But these are the bitter cards that life deals us, and this article was indeed bitter for me.

For me these gay teens echo much of the frustration I felt in my youth – the feelings of isolation, of being physically taunted, of always walking that one step faster than everyone else. Of course my outside persona reflected something very different. My love for conversation and generally fun attitude attracted people to me, so for most of my university life I was surrounded by people or always part of larger groups. I applied the ‘safety in numbers’ routine to a T, and it worked like a charm. But on occasions where I wasn’t with anyone or was walking to a class alone, I would hear the names being muttered just within earshot. I’d learn what ‘faggot’ and ‘queer’ would mean in at least three other languages. I had guys bump into me as they ran up the stairs. I’d have people sway their hips and flail their arms as they walked by me in a dry attempt to get on my nerves. I had an English professor who was explaining double-meanings in a class point directly to me and say “If I say he is gay, what does that mean?” To which someone said “He’s very happy” and someone else screamed “He’s a homo!”

Of course at the time the incident didn’t quite register with me – I wasn’t flamboyantly gay or waving a pride banner, people just knew within a few minutes of meeting me that I was who I was. But despite thinking I was thick-skinned and “Born this Way”, inside the frail chords of my confidence were beginning to snap. My family life was chaotic with everyone seemingly living in their own world and not talking to each other. My grades weren’t great in some of my university subjects because I was doing a degree that my parents wanted me to do rather than pursuing something I was passionate about. My sexual life would put ‘Sex & the City’ and ‘Desperate Housewives’ to shame. Day by day, I wanted out. I wanted to leave everything behind and stop waking up to a life that I dreaded. I didn’t care to think about the people I would be affecting with this decision, I just was fed up of everything and everyone.

So in a somewhat planned and clinically calculated move, I decided to attempt an overdose.

I didn’t write a note explaining what I was going through or why I was doing it. I just went to the medicine cabinet and went through what was there. I stashed the pills in my room and went about the rest of my day as normal. I waited until my parents had gone to bed before getting out of bed and retrieving the pills from under the clothes in my cupboard. I sat on my bed with a bottle of water and started ingesting each one – from Panadol to flu medication I just kept taking them all. After my cocktail of medication was complete, I lay back down and waited. I fell asleep and woke up some hours later to find my sheets and body drenched with sweat. My stomach felt like it was caving in on itself and I couldn’t breathe properly. As soon as my body realized I had woken up, I buckled over and threw up. I grabbed the waste bin and witnessed my stomach empty out the vile contents I had tried to digest a few hours ago. I recall the thick acidic smell as I retched into the bin for what seemed like hours, even when nothing came out and I felt like any moment I would pass out and never wake up. But the short of that experience is that I did not pass from this world, nor (by some miracle) did I do permanent damage to my body. I was stupid enough to just stay home for the week and not talk to anyone about what I had done, letting my body recover from the abuse.

I look back at that event today and so many things go through my mind. I regret that I was so cowardly that I wanted to take my own life rather than try to deal with issues. I wish that I could have talked to someone – anyone, who could really truly understand. Yes I had close friends, but how do you chair a conversation that starts with “Last week I tried to take my life“?

My point of writing this post was not to garner sympathy or try and feel better about what I did. I wrote this post for the person reading this right now who is going through the same things I did those years ago. You don’t have to be gay to be bullied or depressed or suicidal – it can effect anyone. I would like to think that I’m a better person now having come out of it intact, but I also realize that in my moment of weakness I looked for the easy way out. Even now as an adult I’m still not used to talking about how I’m feeling or if anything is bothering me (I’m working on that). But if I was to go back and talk to my past self, I would tell myself that what I was about to do was not only stupid and foolish, but would mean that I had given up on myself. I also wrote this post to show those who know me in real life that even the most seemingly upbeat and ordinary person you know could be crushing on the inside.

Life throws all kinds of shit at you – It Gets Better but only if you want it to.

Life is for living, and it is not in your hands to cut it short -never think that you are worthless or that your existence means nothing in this world.

I shall leave it to the SEO and social media gods to decide if this post should be shared or tweeted etc, but if you are being bullied at school, university, work, or wherever and you really need an outlet, then speak to someone, send a tweet, post a Facebook message, ring a center – anything at all, just don’t believe that life isn’t worth living anymore.

xoxo