Writing to me is a pure therapeutic process that when the pen scrolling its ball on the grumbling white sheet of a paper, a child somewhere was dancing in an open field, an old man had took his last breath, a bus that carried away a memory of old, a plane that flew so close to the harvest moon, and slowly all of it faded.
I wanted to write not because I had envisioned a commercial success from a career that I called life, but because the topics that my generation had tried too well to hide. It’s time to reveal our thoughts, to crack open those wounds, and all those surgeries that had gone so wrong, so that it might not bestow this heritage to the next. I and millions of other people from across high and low context nations had shared and lived in somewhat the same reality. Some of us grew up with pain and trauma that we didn’t know how to get past that. We censored our traumas, depression, sexuality as if it was the most humiliating truth. We stigmatized the word, depression, anxiety, suicide, gay, lesbian, bisexual, weirdo, dreamer, lover, believer, and differences. We are a generation of post-traumatic war, a war of reality, and one that was always in our head.
I remember so clearly the time when I first wanted to commit suicide. Even if I ended up trying too many times and failing, my reality had perished long before I accepted it. When I came to accept it, it was too little too late to heal and redeem from those fractures. Even if I vow to never pass down that pain to the next generation, it remains a commitment that is never promising.