Trigger warning: Themes of depression and suicide. Please be advised.
March 25, 2019
Music: Nine Inch Nails’ “The Day the World Went Away”
I
I didn’t get enough sleep because I went home at 2am. Last night, I had the heaviest, most satisfying Mexican dinner ever, then I walked around the city with Johnny Cash’s version of Nine Inch Nails’ “Hurt” blaring from my earphones. Still, I tried getting out of bed, took a cold bath, and changed my clothes. I forced myself to grab a bite even though I was still full from last night.
After breakfast, I went to my room and locked the door. I usually lock the door for privacy, but this time, I locked it to shut everyone out. I sat on my bed (the same bed I have been sleeping in for the past fifteen years), looked blankly at the floor, and then I saw my antidepressants. I usually take one after breakfast, prescribed by Dr. Q.
That morning, I took more than four.
A few minutes after taking the pills, I said to myself:
The hardest part is over.
Believe me: I don’t want my blood dripping from me; I don’t want to physically hurt myself with something sharp, and my depression is not anyone’s fault. It’s just that my mind has been so noisy and filled with heavy thoughts, and I just want to fade away from all of that mental anguish. I thought that taking more than four pills would bring me to the peace that I have been seeking for so long, and now, fading away was not a matter of if but when.
One more time, I reminisce about all the important moments in my life, from the birthday parties when I was a child to meeting a new seatmate in high school (who would turn into my first crush), to seeing my family being proud as I graduate from college, and all the Media Noche dinners to kick off the new year. I remember all the people who love and have loved me. I remember my family who gave me a comfortable life. I remember my friends with whom I shared hysterical laughs. I quietly said goodbye to everything and everyone I had ever met, and they would never know my last words.
As I felt like fading away and my body grew a bit colder, I stopped paying attention to everything. For the first time, I was not thinking at all. My mind was on autopilot, and that felt like the first phase of eternal peace.
I only remembered these things after saying goodbye quietly: the loudest knocking and opening of a door, my Mother’s tightest hug, her warm tears on my left shoulder, my Father scrambling to get my belongings, and the car engine starting.
II
The moment my mind paid full attention to everything again was when I was in a hospital bed. Later, I learned that my parents couldn’t contact Dr. Q, so a relative (who also happened to be a doctor) told them to bring me to the hospital where she works, and they did.
While I lay in that moderately soft, white bed with soft, white pillows, my body was at its most relaxed, even when I had an IV in my left arm. The last time I was hospitalized was when I was below five years old, so the IV felt really sharply painful.
Meanwhile, my mind kept asking:
Why didn’t I die? Why didn’t I die? Why didn’t I die?
After feeling disappointed, when I remembered my Mother and Father bringing me to the hospital, there lay the answer to my question:
Because they saved me. My Mother and Father saved me.
I was prepared for my world to go away, but they saved it. They saved me. I didn’t want them to, but they did it without hesitation, and their efforts to bring me back from the brink gave me a glimpse of hope that I didn’t know I needed.
Later that night, I met Dr. M, the hospital’s best therapist (according to my aunt). The moment she spoke to me, I heard her soft, comforting voice and felt a gentle soothing in my soul. My new therapist and I started talking about what happened, the events before, and we took it from there, night by night, while I was in that hospital room. I also read many messages from co-workers to friends, and the message themes ranged from understandably mad (“What the hell were you thinking?”) to simply compassionate (“I’m always here for you.”). All of their messages made me feel seen (even the mad ones), and they gave me light on a very dark day.
March 25, 2026
Music: Foo Fighters’ “Walk”
It’s been seven years since the day the world almost went away, and more things have happened since, for better and for worse. The worst day ever and the long, rough road to recovery explain why it took me seven years to finish this piece, but the best parts gave me the right words for this entry and made it more complete and hopeful.
March 25, 2022 became the saddest day for all Foo Fighters fans because Taylor Hawkins, the backbone of my favorite band and one of the greatest drummers of all time, suddenly passed away. When Vestra (one of my best friends) told me the news, my chest tightened, and my heart dropped. Now, I always look back at March 25 as the day I almost died and the day Mr. Hawkins died, and that’s truly depressing. His passing also made my first Foo Fighters show (at the Singapore National Stadium in 2017) more precious. That was the first and last time I saw his ferocity and brilliance on the drums and his infectious energy live.
After all this time, my family has been incredibly supportive, even though I still rarely ask for help. (Asking for help is not my strong suit.) Whenever they see or feel even the slightest sadness from me, they do their best to cheer me up. Recently, I felt really down, and then my Mother bought my favorite burrito without me asking. Simple gestures like that make me feel seen and loved.
Aside from my family, I’m still in touch with Dr. M, but our sessions have become less frequent. (I believe that’s a good thing.) But still, her professional advice always does wonders for my mental health. We talked about my personal issues, and then she gave me several practical, science-backed tips for easing my anxiety and dealing with my depression. Therapy works, and I recommend it to anyone who’s been struggling silently.
The hobbies I’ve maintained for many years also give me great joy (e.g., listening to my favorite music, writing), and my day job gives me purpose and a way to earn money. It also helps that, years after the day almost went away, I started The Diary in February 2023, and now I’ve been maintaining the blog for three years and counting. As a blogger since 2007 and someone who once liked restarting blogs after months of inconsistency, I’m very proud of The Diary.
Fortunately, in recent years, I have had many happy moments that have become my anchors in time. Last year, I went to the Singapore Grand Prix to see my favorite band, Foo Fighters, for the second time, and it was the best Foos show I’ve ever been to. I also had the happiest overseas trips yet in both Tokyo and Seoul, for many good reasons. Whenever I feel melancholic, I can look back at those anchors in time and glimpses of hope and say, “Life is worth living, and I’d like to make more of those joyful memories.”
When it comes to friendships, some of my friends walked away, and many stayed. I understand the former now, and I’m truly grateful for the latter. Plus, even as I got older, I met several new friends, even though that seemed impossible. Notably, I met a new friend from Seoul, and honestly, getting to know her makes me feel on cloud nine.
I also learned to accept that not every day will be happy, and sometimes, it’s okay not to be okay. If today’s mission is to just get through the day or dwell in the darkness for a while, then so be it. On days when sadness is absolute, finding just one reason to smile is another anchor in time. Plus, sometimes, the universe can be wonderful enough to do the anchoring for me. (And surely, for you, too.)
Today, seven years after the day the world almost went away, that heavy feeling resurfaced when I woke up this morning. Then I remembered today’s monumental event: it was the Season 2 premiere of Daredevil: Born Again, and the rage-filled Devil of Hell’s Kitchen is one of my favorite Marvel characters. The new Marvel Television show is another anchor in my timeline, and even though it’s dark, heavy, and brutal, watching it this morning made today less heavy. In fact, after watching the premiere, I spent more time working and doing the things I love and less time remembering what happened. To quote an old Notes to Self entry:
Sometimes, it’s better to remember less. Not forget; remember less.
Seven years after the day my world almost went away, and more than three years after I started The Diary, I finally got to share this story. After experiencing the darkest of the dark, I’m still here, breathing, writing, and fighting. Now, I acknowledge and walk between the light and the darkness. As long as I have a strong support system and my anchors in time, I can continue walking through them.
To quote an older Notes to Self entry (from the Eleventh Doctor):
The way I see it, life is a pile of good things and bad things. The good things don’t always soften the bad things, but vice versa, the bad things don’t always spoil the good things or make them unimportant.
The Eleventh Doctor, Doctor Who: Vincent and The Doctor (S05E10)
To my loved ones who stayed, thank you for always being there for me. When I create happy moments with you, I’m on top of the world, and whenever dark clouds hover above my head, you make me feel less alone.
To those who left me, I’m truly sorry, and I respect your decision. Thank you for being part of my life, even if it’s for a short time.
To my heroes and anchors in time, thank you for giving me the strength to continue. Like my family and friends, you are my glimpses of hope.
And to myself, thank you for staying after the day the world almost went away. Please keep walking, as you always have, since that very day.
Header image: WikiImages/Hans.
To Those Who Are Struggling
If you are reading this and struggling silently, please know that you are not alone. If you know someone who’s struggling inside, please check on them and lend a helping hand. We can fight the silent battle together.
If you’re looking for a crisis hotline/helpline in your area, visit findahelpline.com.
In the Philippines, you can call the National Center for Mental Health (NCMH) Crisis Hotline: 1553, 1800-1888-1553, or 0917-057-1553.
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