It is the early hours as I watch my keyboard stare blankly at me. Outside, janitors are coming in their full force, armed with their brooms to sweep the streets. Islamabad is waking up from a deep slumber, causing a sense of urgency to rise in my chest. I stare at the keyboard, before getting to work.
Dear Diary,
She’s leaving in 4 hours. I couldn’t sleep all night. Every time I would sleep, nightmares about B saying terrible things and leaving. I ended up staying up all night. B sent a stray sleepy text at 3am which got me excited as I watched her last seen.
I feel like writing. I feel like building things. But I can’t bring myself to write more than what I am writing here. And I can’t focus on building anything due to sheer lack of motivation.
When she told me how she felt and how it couldn’t work, I couldn’t digest the words entering my ears. Right there and then. I wanted to die. I wanted to end it. I wanted to leave B, and then drive off a cliff. After dropping her, I contemplated, for the first time in my life, suicide. I calculated different methods, and approaches. All while suppressing the little voice in the back of my head asking me if I was crazy and how this is selfish. The cluster-fuck of guilt and pain dissolved when I threw myself into a hot shower.
I spent most of the morning getting ready. Trimmed nails. Showered. Cleaned up the car a bit. Figured that being a depressed loser who isn’t going anywhere in life isn’t attractive. B deserves better. I drudged myself to the car. I can’t breathe. The car is suffocating. I turn on the AC and roll down the windows. Still can’t breathe. I drive as fast as I can out of my street. B texts me to grab some food. Nearly hit another car. Stop outside a fast-food joint. Text B as I absentmindedly glance at their menu. Finally pick her up along with her suitcase that she intends to take to Lahore.
She complains about being late. Everything happens quickly. She asks me to drop her to the Daewoo station. I still can’t breathe. I try to talk to B but she is too occupied to carry a conversation. I reduce my role to a silent cabbie and drive.
It was a silent affair at Daewoo as she purchased her ticket, gave me a half-hearted smile and boarded her bus. I stepped back, watching her sink into the aisle. Before long, I watched the bus leave the terminal, it’s tail lights light up before turning away into the unseen. I didn’t want to go to the car which now stood as a painful reminder of an old, increasingly difficult-to-remember time. I got an overpriced drink, wrestled a cigarette out of a battered pack of Marlboros, and contemplated what to do.
Dear Diary,
Seven days have gone. Feelings are more variable. But it’s no longer about what happened and the intricate details. The problem now consisted of deeper insights and about feelings. It was no longer a question of what but a question of how.
While I was the more verbose messager, her lols and Ks held me together till I reached home. I sat in my room, watching Youtube videos. As days have progressed, I have found it easier to watch videos and play the occasional video game. I guess that speaks volumes about how much things have improved I guess…and hope.
B’s static silence broke for a second when she turned on her 3G for a second somewhere on the M2. I stayed up all day until I received the ‘Reached’ message at 6.40 PM. Good time.
Been applying to jobs. Zero interview calls. Zero offers. This is what failure tastes like.
Often times B would be online but wouldn’t reply. I decided to give her space. She needed it. I tried to busy myself with pointless distractions, slowly clawing away at my finite stash of Xanax. While there were voices in my mind that advocated for counselling and to combat this hybrid form of self-diagnosed depression, the logistically convenient option seemed far more attractive.
When my stash was exhausted, I decided that I could use either a one-way ticket to Mars or a shitload of Xanax. Since neither were viable right now, I decided to just try to eat something and go back to sleep. Find a pack of instant noodles. Bingo.
Without giving me much time to think or consider, I find myself holding a metal clad spoon in the my kitchen. I eye the toaster sitting atop the microwave which I’ve mostly used to light cigarettes and the occasional joint. I was thinking of making my instant noodles but the idea which I am thinking about really seems attractive. I flip the switch, recite the kalma under my breath and stick the spoon into the toaster while holding the metal countertop. I don’t know why I recited the kalma. Suicide is on the top of the list of dont’s and a mere kalma shouldn’t change anything.
I remember feeling mind-numbingly scared the split second before the electric coil and the spoon made contact. I’ve been electrocuted before but this was different. I was stuck to the spoon and I could feel a massive surge of current going through my body. It felt as if this was life, in this silent muscle drenching pain. It eventually stopped. I sat on the dirty floor, unsure of whether to cry or to rejoice.
I didn’t know what I wanted. I just didn’t. I abandoned my noodles and returned to my room, in search of a stray pill that may suspend the tempest that was my mind.
