9th July, 2019.

Today I tried to get another job. It’s been 202 days since that coward did that shit to me. People call her a bitch when they learn what really happened. I refuse to call her a bitch. Bitches are fierce empowered brave people who own their shit and rise above them. She’s no bitch. She’s a coward.

I spent 186 days in the worst case of depression I’ve ever felt. Never before have I ever been so suicidal. I got to the point when the only thing that made me sleep for a couple of days was the feeling of putting a bullet through her brain before putting another one through mine. In her office, for that special flair, because life and death are no fun without the drama.

I used to think the lowest I could get was wishing to just end my life. I was wrong.

How bad does a person need to fuck you up to bring you to the point where the only thing that brings you peace and sleep is fantasising their death in addition to yours?

I didn’t like that place. It was a particularly scary place to be and I don’t wish to ever return or for anyone else to ever enter.

I worked my mind’s ass off to get away from there and it took me three whole days and nights. I’m really not proud of ever stooping that low. I would never hurt anyone. Not even myself, even more so someone else.

Going down there without my conscious knowledge worsened everything. Money had also started to run low, so I wasn’t able to afford treatment anymore, which meant I was forced, again, out of medication.

Then, my father passed away. Mid-April. The fact that it didn’t tickle a single string of feelings in me did cause an emotional uproar. He had always been so distant I never considered myself to be part of his family. I spent so long caring for not caring and his passing really brought it all into evidence. Was I really the monster, the demon, the terrifying heartless person so many people had called me during the years? The inner struggle between reality and social conventions was ugly and long. Eventually I started to notice it didn’t change a thing if he were dead or alive, for all the long-gone good moments were the same as they had always been: long-gone.

Another then, but really out of a sudden, the 23rd of June came along. There were no special occasions or celebrations or anything of the sort. But on that day, after 186 incredibly awful days, I simply didn’t feel depressed.

It was hard to explain. I had been off the meds for more than a month by then and I wasn’t doing anything at all to try and recover from that state of mind. I saw the financial future deteriorating and I knew for a fact something needed to be done soon. However, for the first time in years, I felt brave.

I started looking for jobs where I could employ my language skills and the things I had learnt inside so many classrooms. I had also finally found the course I wanted to take so I could finally stir my life in the direction I want. But money was running low as ever. Reality was dawning upon me and there was that voice, that stupid fucking voice called reason… or experience… or responsibility… or adulthood… surely one of those boring names, that kept saying that the wisest decision would be to go back to teaching. It would allow me a flexible schedule and it was something easier to achieve.

All the while I kept telling this voice that I heard her. I understood what she meant. I even totally agreed with her. I just couldn’t bring myself to it.

If I’m honest with myself, that voice had started to whisper on the back of my mind long before I just didn’t feel depressed anymore. And here was a benefit of depression: I could laugh at that voice’s face and completely dismiss her words.

Except now I couldn’t anymore. The days kept passing and the depression wasn’t coming back. I started taking track of those days and my inner circle was clearly seeing the difference. Not only was I constantly joyful for the first time in years, but I was also definitely more functional, agile, and productive. I didn’t just sit and think of the things I should be doing, I simply got up and did things. Whenever I took notice, I was already physically tired from so many activities.

I even decided to irresponsibly go for a walk. I mean irresponsibly because after 6 months of lethargic inactivity, I walked 4km. I do have to say I felt great while at it. I had great company for the first half and I came back by myself in a great mood singing some favourite songs.

I hadn’t been so fine with myself since I was 24.

I wasn’t one hundred per cent healed. True, depression had been gone for a fortnight, but I still had some occasional (a couple severe) panic attacks. It was actually almost a whole new sensation, to experience the attacks without the depression. It gave me a sense of urgency, that I needed to find a way out of that ledge. That was a fresh feeling. Normally, my mind’s reaction used to be ‘gosh, just die already and get it over with’.

But the voice started to grow stronger. And it started to have back-up. Other people, people who genuinely care about me, people who are (lucky them) not inside my fucked-up brain, were echoing the same logic. Going back to teaching, even if only for a semester, was the ideal solution in almost every angle.

So, I woke up early, took a decent shower, dressed nice (I actually wore a Mario Kart shirt, which I really love and it looks amazing), smelled even better, and off I went. I was aiming at this amazing school near my house and too close for comfort to the other one where I worked.

I spent a buck to print a CV and there I was. Inside the school. Facing the front desk. Trying my hardest to pull my shit together. Polite as I was sure I was being, my smile had never been so awkward. I honestly couldn’t remember how to fucking smile. I couldn’t remember the last time I did so and add to that this tidbit: I fucking hate my smile. Always have. I’m always happy enough hiding it.

I did what I had to do. I am almost positive I kept my professionalism, even though I am sure I lacked the minimum strength to keep any mask on. I didn’t care about that, though.

I was actually relieved when I left the building. The uber ride home was so difficult. The driver was innocent of any related charges and I wasn’t going to ruin his morning by forcing him to witness a 1.83m-tall man break down in despair. So I held it together just a little bit more.

Gosh, it was hard. But I succeeded.

The very second I entered my house, I collapsed on the couch. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t think, I couldn’t see shit ahead of me except for flashing lights I knew were not real. All I could do was repeat the same words that now seem so vague to me. I kept saying they’re all the same and I kept begging for someone, anyone, to please protect me and never make me go there again. I just couldn’t. I couldn’t and I knew it. I tried to be responsible and I paid a handsome price. I had had 16 amazing depression-free days and I ruined them by giving me a collapse worse than any other I have ever felt. I felt stupid and I felt it was my fault for listening to the voice of reason instead to the voice of my mind.

I still don’t know what to do, but I know, now more than ever, what not to do. And that’s entering the front of a classroom.

A very dear friend of mine helped shine some light into the situation.

She said, and I quote, ‘the fact that you could go there and try is a victory. Although you're feeling bad now. You did it. You decided to do something and you managed to do that. I'm really proud of you. You have actually improved! Take a moment to contemplate that’.

And that’s exactly what I’m doing. And that’s exactly why I felt I needed to register this moment.

Inner-saboteur is very real and we do it to ourselves without ever realising what we’re doing. We indeed think we’re doing what’s best for us given the time and the circumstances. Thanks to the Universe for giving us people to snap us the shit out this nonsense.