“When you get flak even for dying, what hope of living?”: a suicide survivor’s searing story

Help isn’t always helpful

My father and a couple of my friends got me professional help. Doctorsand counsellors who have helped hundreds of people in times of crisis. Thereremains a big problem there. Going to a psychiatrist in India continues to beloaded with one judgement – you’re kind of ‘mad’. It might have been my frameof mind – but I kept feeling they would tie me up if I told them what I was reallyfeeling. For the first few sessions things seemed better, then I started gettingbored with what they had to say and ask. Was I on drugs? What did I do allweek? I already knew the reasons I shouldn’t kill myself, but the reasons todie outweighed the reasons to live, and that didn’t change with those sessions.I started to feel resentful. I’m alive, aren’t I? Why are you bothering me withthis mundane s**t? I would refuse to take medicines on days I felt better –because I didn’t want to be dependent on them. And eventually after a fewsessions I just stopped going.

Very few people knew I was taking help. Most didn’t know I needed any.They saw this chatty, energetic girl who smokes, drinks and can party allnight. Why would I tell anyone I was upset – I was, supposedly, a fighter.Except I wasn’t. And always, the temptation lurked. I wouldn’t have to put upthe farce of trying to fight everyday if I just ended it.

It didn’t happen one night

10 years ago and six months ago – both times, the decision to diewasn’t momentary. It wasn’t one thing that led to me wanting to end it all. Itwas weeks and months of frustration of not attaining what other people seem toeffortlessly achieve.

Social media doesn’t help. You no longer feel your friends arestruggling with the same problems as you. People are calling it Facebook depression.Because it’s all hunky-dory out there. Everyone is travelling, having babies,getting promoted, looking beautiful – while I am struggling to even foldclothes and make my bed. I can never be as good as any of the 700+ friends onmy friend’s list.

Common sense dictates they probably have as many issues as me,they’re just not sharing their troubles online – neither was I, after all. But naah, there’s the voice in my head,telling me no-one could be as miserable and underachieving as I am.

On the bad days, the really bad days, I looked in the mirror and found myselfwondering what use I am to this world. I’m a horrible daughter, a horriblewife, a horrible friend, I would be a horrible mother - the people who love memay not think so, but for me I couldn’t see reason to believe otherwise. On thebetter days I felt loved and wanted – but when despair hit, those feelingsfaded away. And the seductive voice in my head, again, saying, maybe ending itall would make them see my importance.

Nine lives

A friend jokes about my suicidal phase and callsme cat because I survived seven suicide attempts and have two left. Most havecalled me ‘emo’ at one time or the other. I know they aren’t saying it to hurt– that’s how they see it. That I am choosing to be this way. Choosing to haveexcessive ‘feelings’. Yet, I’ve never been given a worthwhile reason as to whyI shouldn’t do it. What if I don’t want to face all the struggles of life likeothers? What is so wrong in giving up? If it seems harder work than it’s worth,why should I be denied the right to stop?

Illness, not madness

I know and understand that depression is an illness, but there continueto be endless stigmas attached to the issue. Most of all I am scared ofdisappointing those who love me. I don’t want them to question what they didwrong when I go to  a professional. Idon’t want them to think I am crazy. The idea of death seems like a blessedrelease from these anxieties.

Which is why, when I heard about Pratyusha, and other celebritiesbefore her, all I felt was an aching sympathy.

These celebrities face so much pressure, public glare, sexualharassment, all manner of failures in search of that illusory success. And evenwhen you’re somewhat successful – there’s always more. There’s someone elsebetter, prettier, fitter, more talented, more connected. I’m pretty surefailing when you are famous is worse. Imagine not being cast anywhere andmoving on, only to see, even years later, that a magazine has done a story onyour failures. Imagine waking to every personal thing blown out of proportionin gossip columns. “You wouldn’t believe why this actress was dumped”.

Even death has only got her flak, imagine living through thisglare.

It takes a Deepika Padukone coming out about her depression to makethis country start talking. According to a WHO report in 2014, India accountedfor the highest estimated number of suicides in the world in 2012. Yet, eventhree years later I found only four numbers online, two of which didn’t work,no-one answered at the other two, and only one of them called back.

And yet, seeking help is all you can actually do.

I know how help, intentionally given or accidentally received,makes a difference. Because the last time (a decade ago) I actually attemptedsuicide, seconds before cutting my veins a dear friend called. She wasconcerned I was about to do ‘something stupid’. She asked where I was and whatI was doing. I was trying to pretend things were ok. But when she announced shewas on her way over to my room with food, I broke down. I bawled as shelistened. She just sat there, heard me through quietly, and told me to wait fora week before I did anything. She didn’t question my decision – all she did wasto tell me to wait.

I needed her to just hear me. Because a decade after, I’m stillhere.

Unfortunately for thousands of people that help is not around.There are virtually no forums to discuss this without being judged. There areno self-help groups, or easy-to-reach counsellors. There are teens who face thepressure of exams, youth who go through heartbreak and the pressure to achievelife goals quicker and quickler, people who are not able to juggle careers andpersonal lives, and those who lose their jobs and have families to support.

There are hardly any doctors who don’t charge an insane amount ofmoney.

No hotline numbers that work in the middle of the night when peoplefeel the loneliest.

It’s an insane world out there. For many of us, it seems to make nosense to carry on. But we do. We try and fight. All I wish is that people wouldjoin our fight instead of pushing us further down the precipice.