Death comes for us all

I was talking to my dad about his victory over cancer. He often expresses fear about it returning. I told him that everyone owes a death, and when it comes is not up to us. What matters is how we make the most of our time. I reminded him to think of those who didn’t get a second chance like he did. He changed the subject, likely thinking I wasn’t listening because I didn’t join him in his worries. I tried to validate his concerns but didn’t want him to use self-pity to pull me into a role of mothering him through potential sickness.

I read a book called “The Thanatonauts” by Bernard Werber. It explores the afterlife. People put themselves into a coma using drips to explore beyond death. One image stuck with me: a cord that pulls you back to life. If it snaps, you can’t return. This feeling resonates when I think about suicide. The thought creeps in, pushing the boundaries of what seems possible.

The first time I encountered this thought, I was 8 or 9. I looked into the abyss, contemplating how quickly everything could end. Everything hurt, and I felt trapped. I felt powerless. I allowed that thought to pass, shuddering at its presence. I couldn’t believe I had even considered it. I pushed it to the back of my mind and tried to move on. I later watched a documentary about people who attempted suicide and failed. They all said that as it happened, they regretted it. Their survival instincts kicked in, and they reached out for help. They realised they didn’t want their lives to end; they just wanted the pain to stop. This realization made me feel good about my decision to hold on.

Time passes. Good times come, and bad times come. Nothing lasts forever. The idea of suicide lingered in my mind, but I managed to push it away. I made friends and could talk to them about my feelings. However, I still had dark periods when I wished to sleep for days, hoping I wouldn’t wake up. I could distract myself by listening to their stories, allowing me to escape my thoughts, if only temporarily. I tried to push everything down, hoping it would go away. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.

The next time these thoughts emerged, I was living alone. I stayed up at night, watching TV and crying. I missed sleep, feeling like my life wasn’t what I wanted. I thought I had tried everything, but it seemed everyone else knew the rules while I was left outside looking in. The pain weighed me down like lead. I felt perpetually lonely and stuck. One night, I watched a documentary about cancer patients discussing their declining health. They wished for more time. As I listened, I cried harder. I wasn’t crying out of empathy; I cried because they were losing their lives while mine felt painful and unending. How was that fair? I went to bed wishing to disappear, waking up disappointed that I was still here, while they would have given anything to be in my shoes.

Just thinking that this too shall pass wasn’t enough this time. I clung to God, believing my grandad in Heaven was watching over me. I thought the Lord had a plan, and everything would have purpose and meaning. I began to believe happiness is a choice. I tried to smile, even when there was nothing to smile about. At work, I would smile, and while my brain didn’t understand why, it accepted it as a sign of happiness. This allowed me to feel okay for a while.

I told someone this story, and when I mentioned my suicidal thoughts, they tried to convince me there was no God. I wondered why someone would try to take away my belief that kept me alive. It dawned on me that the topic of suicide is so overwhelming that people often change the subject instead of confronting it.

Sometimes, things seem to go well, as if everything is falling into place. This was how I felt when I moved to the UK in July 2013. I thought I was getting everything I wanted. I was a happy, independent woman making a difference. But then I moved, leaving my friends and family behind. The media portrayed me as unwelcome, and every time I went out, I felt judged for not being British enough. I got a job, but while people talked about me, few engaged with me. I struggled to make friends and felt lost and alone. I started each day asking the Lord if I could get hit by a bus—not to be killed or maimed, but just enough to avoid going to work.

I fought with my boyfriend, seeking solitude to sleep. I had no energy for anything. I had been a happy girl, but I turned into a depressed wreck. My boyfriend felt guilty for bringing me to this place. I could sense his guilt and pity. I tried to escape this mindset but found myself in the shower one evening, staring at my wrists. I thought about how easy it would be to end everything. But then I thought of him. I knew it would devastate him.

Life sometimes throws you a bone, and mine came in the form of a job change. I met new people who valued me, and things improved. I found joy in simple moments, like standing in the sunshine and watching bunnies hop on the lawn. I realized happiness could be found in small things.

I once attended a musical about suicide, sitting in the front row. I felt exposed, as if the performers were looking directly at me. Listening to their stories, I felt my own emotions trapped in my throat. I enjoyed the show immensely, as it resonated deeply with my experiences.

Sometimes, I felt down but didn’t have the luxury to fall apart. I buried my feelings deep inside, fighting harder to keep myself together. I had days when I fell asleep before my head hit the pillow, not caring about food or changing clothes. I was just surviving. Intrusive thoughts began to plague me, images of how I could end it all. Initially, they were easy to dismiss, but they grew stronger until I found myself saying, “I could just die.” It was a simple statement, but it hid my struggles.

I faced many challenges: a breakup, feeling alone, and uncertainty about my future. One night during lockdown, I walked past houses where people were having dinner. I felt invisible, thinking nobody would notice if I disappeared.

In therapy, I began to talk about my feelings. It was difficult, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how my actions would affect my family and friends. I knew I couldn’t act on my thoughts. As I spiraled down, the people I cared about felt like burdens, holding me back. I couldn’t share my feelings with friends. When I mentioned it once, I saw panic in their eyes, realizing they had to choose their words carefully. I felt guilty for burdening them.

I felt shameful, lonely, and scared. I wondered why this was happening to me. I thought about karma and how I must have done something terrible to deserve this. I believed I was hurting others and that they would be better off without me. This led me to seek help.

During a therapy session, I cried the entire time, something I rarely did. I told my therapist I couldn’t do it alone anymore. She asked if I intended to hurt myself, and while I was still in control, I knew I needed help. We discussed antidepressants, agreeing they were a temporary crutch. I visited my GP and began treatment.

The first step was a sudden calmness; my anxiety vanished. But the depression remained, dragging me down. I never thought I would miss anxiety, but I did. I knew the depression would come, and I had to hang on for about eight weeks for the medication to take full effect. I discovered I could multitask, crying for hours while still doing my job. I continued therapy, tracking my state of mind to identify triggers.

People often suggested thinking positive thoughts to escape my state. As I walked, my mind would whisper, “You could just step in front of that car.” I felt sad waking up each morning, struggling to remember to drink water and eat. Telling someone in that state to think positively is like putting a smiley sticker on a car crash victim. In that moment, I felt shame and hyper-aware that others weren’t responsible for my feelings. What I needed was acceptance and connection. Talking to my friend Diana and my therapist allowed me to process my feelings.

Having my dog, Bruno, and his friends helped immensely. Their joy in seeing me, regardless of my mood, brought happiness. Playing with them released oxytocin, reducing stress and lowering blood pressure. Walking with Bruno increased my physical activity and taught me to stay present.

Getting better also meant letting go of the image of what my life should be. I often repeated, “This is not how things are meant to be.” Once I embraced that I couldn’t control everything, I started to relax. I focused on the present instead of what I thought my life should look like.

I’m not saying these thoughts disappear completely; they return. When I reach a place of acceptance, it becomes automatic. It’s like being in an elevator with broken cables, plummeting down. Therapy helps me recognize this and fight back by reminding myself that my brain lies. I breathe deeply, calming my body, and then troubleshoot my thoughts. I focus on what outcome I want rather than the quickest escape.

There is one truth in life: death comes for us all. We know where we start, but we never know when or how it will end. Some live in fear of this inevitable end, but that will not be me. When death arrives, it will feel like a friend finally coming for me. Until then, I hope to use my experiences to do something worthwhile. I want to enjoy the ride and create moments that light up my life, looking back with peace, joy, and pride.

For now, I cherish happiness when it comes. I find joy in seeing Bruno do something funny, witnessing my friends marry, and being there for them in their happy and sad times. I will hold on because I am curious about how things will unfold. I will take control and be the maker of my destiny.