Silence is a beautiful and slightly misunderstood mystery because the full potential of silence remains unknown and the true depths of its effect remain unseen even to the biggest and sharpest pair of eyes.

However, silence can be mistaken for a bloody murder weapon. Silence is known to be sharp enough to brutally murder an innocent infant, hide a filthy rapist, smile when sentenced in the court of law and remain unapologetic without the simplest show of remorse.

Silence can also be mistaken for a hero, as it is selfless enough to offer you its last sandwich at the cafeteria. It is brave enough to jump into a raging fire without the correct gear, caring enough to drive you home on a lonely night. It invites you for drinks without feeling entitled to sex in return.

Silence is many things, an honourable deed deserving recognition, or a sinner’s one-way ticket to the feared terrors of hell. But the true reality of its character may depend on many variables such as one’s perspective. The clarity of your window view, your angle of peeping light or your unknown but safely kept reasons. Feel free to care unconditionally about the humorous things we feel confident enough to say aloud but remain terrified and curious about the silent thoughts we never share. And the hidden feelings we constantly choose to keep within.

Like that degrading feeling of failure and emptiness even after our finest achievements or our annoying hesitation to show affection. Genuine care has become overrated like the significance of trap music. And the existing trade of emotion is currently under investigation for fraud and corruption because the resource of love seems to be misallocated and others always seem to benefit more than others.

My soul has been broken enough times to be paralysed from the waist down and my forgiving heart has been let down enough times to develop the foundations of its very own ground floor. I don’t think I could ever be ready to go through that all over again. I supposedly stopped being myself at the tender age of six when I finally packed away my faith like a neatly ironed pile of laundry. I stopped endorsing the comforting thought of heaven as I skipped my daily prayer for the very first time, accepting that sometimes things just wouldn’t turn out to be OK. By the miserable age of nine, I had given up on all my safe floatation devices as I slowly began to accept that I would spend an entire lifetime continuously drowning in my own thoughts, and at the toughening age of 16, as the heavy storms of puberty began to clear, I had lost myself long enough to file a missing person’s report, burnt enough bridges to be labelled an unstable arsonist and had been running long enough from the lurking shadows of my horrible past to be televised as a fugitive. I have been running since, running towards or from something?

Unfortunately, with most parts of myself still unsure, that remains to be the million-dollar question, but this far silence has settled down in the lapsing parts of my better judgement, forcing everything else to accept that he is a sensible answer. So, I haven’t really said anything to anyone about anything and for over a decade I’ve been fine, it’s been easier for me. If you’ve read up to this part, thank you.

I really appreciate it because most people give up after the first paragraph and not everyone is worth a long text. The honesty spread throughout the next paragraph may be an irrational decision like every choice made after choosing to leave your parent’s house in search of an adventure, a story, or simply a life of your own. Sometimes you have to let yourself leap before you can fly or let yourself crash before realising how fast you can recover, so let the silence be broken, heights be forgotten, and the glorious leap be ready to be taken.

Truthfully, I haven’t slept the same since my mother died. People will tell you that it gets better with time, but it honestly doesn’t. The comforting lie just falls under those one thousand things that we say but never begin to believe in. I guess a lie really isn’t that painful when it’s fabricated enough to make you feel better about both your half-empty self and your miserable life. I guess a lie isn’t all bad when it helps you slow down the rushing thoughts that could drive you into tempting a suicide, at least not a second one because you were lucky enough to escape the harsh horrifying voices of death when you tried it the first time around.

Would I be a selfish person to be given a second chance at life? Would I be considered a coward if I just wanted to walk away from everything because somewhere down this horrible line of life, breathing and living just became exhausting?

I wouldn’t dare try another suicide, however, I have been dancing on the darker side of that thought for the longest minute now. I know how it feels to lose hope and suddenly see yourself to be nothing but helpless. It is nothing like losing a tooth, there is nothing to look forward to when the first ray of sunshine finally pierces through your window. And the pain, like a birthmark, never really goes away.

I know how it feels to be on the receiving end of neglect, and always feeling the need to prove yourself until you come to realise you will never be good enough for some people. Some people are destined to find love that only lasts a moment in time like the presence of a shooting star. Others are lucky enough to find a love like the average star, someone who will always be there when the darkness comes.

My depression hasn’t been a problem. I assume that sadness isn’t a feeling when you prefer to be numb even through the better days of your suffocating life. My anxiety has decided to put down all its evil weapons. I assume that he too has realised that he doesn’t need to attack because I haven’t got anything more to look forward to when I wake up every morning. I no longer see the desperate need to be nervous about a future that might never come or a future that I wouldn’t want for myself.

I remember the first time that I felt brave enough to commit suicide; time must’ve stopped in that moment because I honestly didn’t care what life had to offer next. I remember the soothing feeling of relief as I’d finally found a permanent solution to all my problems, and I remember thinking: you shouldn’t have trusted all the things that I said.
Are you OK?
Yes, I am…
Of course, I wasn’t.
But I know that’s not what you want to hear, so let me conform…
Are you OK?
Yes, I am
Silence…

Tell us: What are your thoughts about the narrator’s experiences with depression?