Intellectualising Insanity

Trigger warning: Suicidal Ideation/Domestic Violence/Childhood Abuse

Originally when I picked this title, I wanted to write about the societal impact the marketisation and how the categorisation of the state of mind is used as a tool to further ostracise and alienate the affected. We are doped up in droves. SSRIS, Benzos and sometimes anti-psychotic medication are used to help the afflicted dull the infuriating infliction they have been bestowed with. The responsibility of rehabilitation is deftly placed on the afflicted regardless of whether or not they caused it. That is the way society tries to intellectualise the concept of insanity by making it the afflicted’s solitary issue.

However, I wanted to dig a bit deeper and get personal this time round. I want to be free from the shackles of shame. Like a bird moulting it’s feathers to make headway for a new, shinier sheath, I want to shed the burden and weight I have carried on my figurative duffel bag throughout the years. For once, I want to be real with myself and real with others.

Sometimes I am plagued with intrusive thoughts so disturbing it can render me bed bound. These thoughts can be extremely nasty, cruel and pervasive. “Your existence doesn’t matter and that’s why you were abused as a kid. Why don’t you kill yourself you stupid bitch? Even the people who brought you into this world hate you. Waste of fucking space”.

I have dealt with suicidal ideation for most of my life and now at twenty six it’s still something I struggle with. As a child, I did not have the mental dexterity to be able to understand and comprehend the severe nature of my thoughts. As a kid, I could not conceptualise the abnormality of the state of my mind. However, as I got older, I soon learned to keep my fucked up cognitive function to myself. The funny thing is I was the class clown growing up and humour became my coping mechanism. If I can at least make myself and others laugh, I can momentarily forget about the constant excruciating pain I feel on a daily basis.

Life lost colour to me as a toddler. I have lived a life of turbulence filled with heartache, terror and abuse. My first memory as a child was seeing my pregnant mum slumped on the floor crying and my dad cowering over her in a towel yelling. I have a brother older than me by a year and he came up to me wide eyed and scared. He is intellectually disabled and is autistic. As a three year old, I instinctively knew he was more vulnerable than me and needed more care. I grabbed my brothers hand and squeezed it tight to reassure him that I will protect him.

Eventually my dad went outside the hallway of the flat complex we lived in still yelling and the idiot somehow locked himself out. I tentatively waddled over there and opened the door to let him in and he then proceeded to the bedroom my parents shared to get changed as it was the morning. Pretending like his violent outburst didn’t happen and with my brother in tow, I went up to my mum who was still collapsed on the floor in tears. I gently caressed her hair and asked her what I can do to make her feel better. “Please don’t cry mummy,” I said to her wide eyed, confused and petrified.

My brother was just silent besides me and I could feel his body pushing up against me for comfort. I guess the sight of my mother seeing her two young kids under five looking at her worried snapped her out of it and she told us she was okay. She limped to the kitchen to make us breakfast and after we ate breakfast, my brother and I occupied ourselves with our toys. We did not exchange a single word and we both knew we just wanted to pretend like it never happened.

It was in this moment were I first wished I could disappear. Disappear in the sense that I wish I was not alive so I did not have to witness that ever again. However, I had to pretend like I was fine for the sake of mother and brother. They needed me. I had to be strong. The violence eventually escalated onto me and I had to bear the wrath of both of my parents. My title shifted from loved protector to that of ‘I’m blamed for everything’ scapegoat.

‘The reason why I beat you up and I’m so much tougher on you is because out of all your siblings you can handle it the best’, is what both my parents would tell me after mistreating me. I always thought but what if I don’t want to handle it anymore? Why am I the sacrificial sheep having to endure all of this?

Now that I am an adult, I have realised my coping mechanisms growing up was pure disassociation and daydreaming. Pretending that everything was fine was a survival mechanism that has worked well for me until recently. Now I am left with the fragmented pieces and all I can say to myself is what the fuck? What was that about? It’s a lot to try unpack and comprehend.

This is the shameful secret I have internally carried inside of myself for a long time. Growing up in domestic violence and abuse has wired my brain to the point that I am riddled with thoughts of suicide. I know it’s not ‘normal’ but try tell that to a brain that has been conditioned and programmed to spew vile (and sometimes borderline psychotic) vitriol at you.

There is a lot of taboo and secrecy surrounding the subject of ‘suicide’ which further exacerbates the shame felt by the afflicted. From a logical standpoint, I understand the discomfort death brings. We do not want to be reminded of our own mortality and for most people the fear of the unknown stimulates the ‘innate’ desire to want to live. However, for people like me something happened to us to make us feel like life isn’t worth living. Our bodies and brains have grown weary and tired. Tired to the point that we believe in our death we shall finally find restful respite. The way my brain rationalises it is that in death I will just be a decaying body which will eventually decompose into debris and dirt. That’s it. I will be freed from this life that has bought me more pain than pleasure. More sadness and heartache than joy and happiness.

I am tired of living in secrecy. I want to take my power back as I have been silenced for too long. I am tired of feeling isolated and cut off from the rest of the world. I am tired of feeling misunderstood. I know I have a long way to go but I feel like I need to live and embody my truth. That is my divine purpose.

Sometimes I want to kill myself but I still want to taste the sweetness of life. I want to feel the love and beauty of the world. I want to travel. I want to dance in the rain. I want to laugh and cry. I want to just be in the moment and feel.

I want to be human.

Sometimes I want to kill myself but I don’t want to die.