Dear Sally,

Some will say that I indulge myself in fictional world, or in their words "easily influenced" but I'll continue anyways.

Dear Sally Brampton, 

I have finally finished your book. The one about depression, Shoot The Damn Dog: A Memoir of Depression. Halfway through your book, I found out that you lost to depression, you had taken your life away. Before finding the cold hard truth, I peeked through the last page of your story, you said you were happy, that it was your happy ending. I guess, your happy ending is happening, you are free from your depression. 

Just like what I have said before, I wished I have the chance to meet or write to you when you were alive to show my gratitude towards you. Thank you for telling me that I was not alone, thank you for explaining what I was feeling and most importantly, thank you for sharing your journey. Yours had come to an end, mine has not. 

I was quite surprised that you hadn't thought of taking your own life halfway through the book, but of course, it was coming. It was pretty similar to mine. Of course, the thought of it always lingers in my mind until recently, as in these couple of years where I really don't mind if it were to happen. When I drive, I felt like releasing the brake and crash to the car in front, not to die instantly, I don't want death. I just want to feel something. 

Maybe, I don't know at all. I'll be honest, I've been provoking my cat in scratching me and make me bleed, I challenged myself to pain. Recently, I couldn't cry but my heart felt stuffy, as if it was about to burst. I traced thumbtacks above my knee, I didn't see any blood or scratches, I scratched deeper. I felt like crying because I can't see any blobs of blood. I traced again, forming seven lines of pink, it was pretty, the shades of pink. I got frustrated and took two different scissors and tried to bleed again but, damn the scissors for being blunt. Don't worry, it was my first time. I tried scratching myself but that doesn't hurt much, I can't feel a thing. Maybe this was a sign that God gave me to stop. 

I woke up after 12pm, I do not want to start my day. I went to buy a paper knife. It was so difficult pushing the blade out, I felt like crying again. I traced it onto the cuts I made last night, or maybe five hours before waking up. I felt the sharpness slicing my skin, lightly. Yes, it was only a graze, nothing deep. I wouldn't dare. I waited for a few seconds before blobs of blood coming out. I breathed out, felt great and relieved. Later at night, I promised not to do it again. Wait, scratch that, I said I'll try and I did try. I have not been doing it although the urge lingers in my brain. I promised to read the Quran and revised my lecture notes from Umm Hud

I have a spot that I love, I would sit there for hours, listening to songs. One minute, I felt angry, another minute, I felt like crying, another minute, my mind was empty. I watch cars and motorcycle pass by, waiting for the night breeze to hit me. I look up to the moon, wondering if the moon knew what I was feeling. I watched the moon, hidden by series of night clouds, then reappear, the brightest light, it sparks my heart for a few seconds. 

Sally, 

you are right when you said, these days, I find it easy to spot a depressive. The illness is scrawled across them like graffiti. I won't say that I am an expert when it comes to this but it's easier to spot one, even those who are troubled. It got me thinking to what you thought when you went to the Florist and you thought of how people see you normally but not yourself. As I was walking to the cafe of my campus today, I thought of how normal people see me, not that I was insane, although I felt like I was insane. I hated the hot weather, I hated how my skin feel burn from the heat, I hated the sweat forming on my body, I hated how dry the soil is, I hated how dry the grass I stepped on but despite all the hatred, I looked normal. This is stupid but I felt the pain forming above my knee, the cuts I formed as I produce sweat. 

I thought I was getting better, Mid 2017, I felt so suffocated that I didn't mind falling to the road and get hit by the car but as 2017 was approaching, I felt a new energy after crying almost to every episode of Scrubs, Modern Family and The Middle. I was tired of being gloomy and bitter about life, and again, from late 2016 until Mid 2017, I was at my lowest point, I thought. I was tired of isolating myself, and I felt like I needed to break the wall that I created. The sudden wave of energy did boost me to become positive, however the fear remained in me. I was scared of breaking my wall down. I told myself to trust my guts but my brain is telling me to stop because my trust has been broken more than I could remember. Quoting you again, as to whether the depression will come back, it is every depressive’s fear. It might, It might not. I have no way of knowing.   

     I wouldn't lie, I was greatly afraid of my sadness coming back and true enough, it did. I understand my emotion at times, but now, I don't. Just like what you mentioned about depressive, I am somebody who can’t leave her bedroom, somebody who can’t walk across a road to buy a newspaper. I start to cry. I hate crying. I hate these tears that come, unbidden, at any time of day. The thing was, tears were never easy for me. I rarely cry and even if I wanted to, either I cry quietly or I held it in despite the urge to burst into tears. However, the case is different now. I burst into tears as often as breathing, maybe a little exaggeration. 

     There are moments, maybe most of the time where I felt the world is against me. Everybody hates me. Every negative tweet about a person is me, everybody feel burden when they are with me or when they are responsible for me. I blamed myself at times because I felt like I was the root of every problem. I hated it more if I couldn't solve it. You could say that I'm one of those who thinks everyone's world revolved around me. Maybe it's just insecurities. 

      Dear Sally,

If it were up to me, I never want to end this conversation, even if it's one sided. You once said the word 'fine' is forbidden in therapy because it means

      Fucked up,

      Insecurities

      Neurotic

      Emotional. 

     I may not fit all these description to even utter fine. So maybe if someone were to ask me how am I doing, I'll say INE? That was a joke, a bad one.

     Some might claim that I am seeking attention, some may say that I am crying for help or am rebelling. I am to assure you that it wasn't my intention to do so. Words of worry doesn't comfort me, not anymore, or ever was. Again, it's not any of you, it's just me. I happened, I exist. 

     Sally, thank you and I apologize for being I don't know what .