piscespixies

The month of May was incredibly tiring and as the day went by, the more drainage it caused to my brain. The multimedia team and I were working super hard for our short film while trying to complete our assignments before the deadline. Then we proceed to revising for our final examinations which was on the first week of June.

Within the last few weeks, I have been going out a lot in order to keep my thoughts at bay and avoid being at home. Enjoying my time with the misfits and basket case on spontaneous road trips and losing our voices by singing out loud -- our lives were something that came out of a movie at that moment. We had sleepovers and deep conversations. A few broke down while doing so and everyone was genuinely there; present, listening and understanding. I have never had those in my life before, I had only two but they were distracted most of the time. So, seeing the way my current circle of friends deal with one of their episodes were endearing and it made me feel secure. Being a basket case my whole life is a challenge, they can relate. Yes, it is cliche to be an outcast, truth be told, there were not enough movies/films or books to acknowledge the life of my "kind/character".

Going back to when I was 12, Green Day made me realise I was a basket case and since then, 'Basket Case' was and is my life's anthem. People rarely understood me because I was peculiar in some ways. I tried exhaustively to conceal my inner kookiness in order for others to accept me. It took me awhile to adjust and change my perspective. I have opened up and been exposed to various types of people -- within those tedious years of bumping into the rights and wrongs, the bitches and assholes; I am glad to say that I have found my band of misfits cause I know where I belong... as for now. Sharing personal information as well as mixtapes are common for us. We expose our inner-selves or souls to each other and that is the most rewarding thing I could ever ask for.

Few weeks of fun and laughter exhausted me and my brain, especially. A friend of mine slept over here few nights ago, I invited over two of my friends to bake some cookies and jam to music. An hour after, they were told to leave, as it was early and me trying to ground myself, I told her to join the boys so she'll have at least a good time with them rather than staying here helping me clean up.
It may sound like it wasn't a big deal, but I was embarrassed that they were forced to leave as soon as possible. It triggered something in me, therefore, I broke down. It is frequently a norm for me to break down, however that night was antithetical. Millions of thoughts crashed like tsunami waves in my tired brain and I was in an incredibly vulnerable state. I cried for hours while listening to The Fray hoping they'll help -- but it made matters worse. Being lectured in the Asian household is conventional and is considered as a daily routine for parents, especially for someone like me. Not only my exhausted self is making me weak, also my emotions took over. I used an old friend of mine, the razor and did a few cuts on my right arm. Considering that I had an acute anxiety attack, I took approximately three tablets of clonazepam to ease it off. What I didn't realise was I took all ten and since then, I could not remember what happened. All I am able to recall is the moment I opened the door when my friend came back and I blacked out until the next day, at 7am. The first thing I did was attempting to stand up but couldn't because I was uncoordinated and numb. I felt nauseous and vomited twice which was not a good sign.

To save you from the treacherous occurrences that went on; I checked in myself to the ER and spent a night at the hospital because I was overdosed. There was a question repeated in my mind: "are you sure you accidentally took all 10mg in order to keep your thoughts and emotions at bay, or did you expect to OD on the pills and end your life?" It's a terrifying question, if I had to say so myself.

I still haven't figured it out yet. Maybe, some part of me would've wanted me to die, and the other wanted me to wait for awhile, it's not the time yet. I couldn't find the core problem of it all -- doctors and people kept on shoving similar questions down my throat: "what triggered it?" "were you upset?" And all I was able to answer was: "I took two to three pills expecting them to keep me calm from my anxiety attack while watching a TV show. I didn't realise I took ten and everything was a blur since then."

My friends told me I was lucky my body rejected the drugs.  I wasn't myself that day -- it was scary. I was scared and confused most of the time -- of course I was, I still am. Despite wanting to be independent, a person needs love and someone who understands plus takes good care of them from time to time. I have only had that when I was a kid. After growing up to the sad news that I was adopted, I have lost my trust and comfort in my home and with my family. I know they accept and love me -- once you knew that you didn't belong, you're an alien. In all honesty, I do appreciate their effort, I do. Some things are meant to be separated, if that makes sense. I was meant to be given away from my birth parents and move into a decent home with people who love me. Same thing applies to life and death; you live, learn, love and then you die surrounded by the people you've lived with and loved. I was brought up religiously with a side of affection. I appreciated that. Dad is currently working hard, he's always been, in order to get us to wherever we want to go; achieving our goals and also coping with the economy. I am grateful, I hope they know that.

There was a nurse from the ER who shared her story about her adopted sister. She told me she tried her best to ensure her sister feels like she belongs with the family and that they love her like their own. "You're still young, and beautiful. You have so much to live for. Promise me I won't see you here ever again," she said. I teared up and hugged her twice and couldn't thank her enough.

A day after I was discharged, which is today; my parents came to me worrying about their reputation on what people might think. I deleted the post of me on the ER yesterday because I know the consequences, hence them telling me that if it isn't important, do not post it. I could've died if my body did not reject the drugs, but I guess it isn't important.

They didn't know that, whenever I am alone, for 7 years now I have held it in... I didn't talk to them, I didn't have friends to talk to back then -- I was alone. They didn't know that whenever I am alone, I always go to God and pray my heart out with watery eyes like a broken tap. These constant thoughts and images automatically run through me and to my left hand -- all I need is either a keypad or pen and paper to write them down. My parents don't get how crazy I can get if I were to keep my thoughts locked up in a hypothetical cage rather than letting them out in written form. I wish I could express it verbally like normal people do, I tried to sometimes but I tend to choke on my words -- tongue tied. Such a coward.

Clearly, my situation effects them, all of them. I am not blind. I may be in denial for most things, but not this. I am sorry.

I am in an endless battle with myself. It is not the 'demons' or anything. I am with God, and I do believe he is watching over me despite my actions. Parents don't see what our generation see; life is complicated, praying does help, friends do too. Those who are unfortunate depend on drugs to get high when they're at their lowest, or commit suicide because they thought it was the only way to end the unbearable pain.
As for me, praying, friends, music and writing are my sanity. Surrounding myself with people who have done things that aren't particularly 'religious' is definitely a challenge. But I try to remind them to hold onto their faith -- it worries me whenever they have their own episodes and I am not good with handling emotional things which is highly ironic as I am the most emotional person in our circle. However, that does not mean I cannot be there for them. I try to, I hope it's enough. If not, I am sorry.

My episodes can be tolerable, other times they are destructive. I am a time bomb -- someday I can spontaneously combust and I am sorry too.

"Just because someone looks strong, doesn't mean nothings wrong, because even the strongest person needs a shoulder to cry on."

Suicide is not how I would want my book's ending to be. My story has just begun and I intend to make it worth the read. Maybe I should name it 'The Band of Misfits vs Reality.' Sounds kinda cool, doesn't it?