Trigger Warning: This article deals with suicidal ideation and depression
It is New Year’s Eve and people around me are drunk, literally drunk. I’m the only one sober because I need to drive home, but that’s not the real reason as to why I’m sober. Truth is I’m scared of the things that might happen when the alcohol would slightly burn my throat. I’m not scared of getting drunk, though. I’m scared that I’ll go too far and that those thoughts get worse; that somehow these thoughts intensify and take over, and, that, somehow, I will do the things I will later on regret.
People around me were dancing, talking to each other or playing beer pong. I, on the other hand, was standing in the living room watching them getting wasted. I don’t know how many beers or Bacardi Colas they had consumed, though it was enough to get them wasted before midnight, clearly. Everyone was laughing and enjoying themselves. I was just anxious for the moment the clock would strike 12 and I would find myself crying again.
Despite all those thoughts racing through my mind, I still managed to enjoy myself. Friends surrounded me and we were having fun. At some point I found myself enjoying the moment, but I still managed to sneak out of the living room and into the bedroom…
I sat on the bed, holding my phone, scrolling through it; my mind empty and my stomach turning. I told myself to get out there again and not to be a loner. So I did, I went out there again and managed to plaster a smile on my face. Everyone was drunk, the house was a mess, people were a mess. And I was still sober; dreading the moment the clock would strike 12.
People were yelling and wishing each other the best for 2017, fireworks exploded in the air and we all went outside. It was cold, ice cold. People were drunk and I remember getting beer spilt over my new winter coat. My friends were setting off the fireworks, they made a little fire and were asking for wood. We brought some of our own but we needed more, apparently. More wood, in the form of a Christmas tree with lights and decoration included, came falling out the window from the third floor. I went inside after that, managed to talk to some people before I slipped into the bedroom again. I wished my parents a happy new year’s via text and sat down, breathing in and out, thinking about what went wrong… I managed to hold my tears when the thoughts became too loud and too aggressive. I remember thinking that maybe I was better off dead and that 2017 wasn’t meant for me. I cursed myself for staying, for not ending it in 2016. But I knew I never could…
In 2016, I regularly found myself crying for no reason, had problems falling and staying asleep, waking up in the middle of the night without a proper reason and I had a hard time controlling emotions. I was later diagnosed with dysthymia (Persistent Depressive Disorder). I was also asked if I was suicidal… Two of my therapists had asked the same questions and I never had the guts to answer, because, truths is, I may be suicidal.
I wished my story ended in 2016, but it didn’t. And sometimes I do regret my decision to stay, other times I don’t. It’s a constant battle of right and wrong. It’s the depression that sometimes gets too much, it’s the thoughts of death that sometimes take the upper hand but it’s always up to me to choose to fight.