The Glitch: How I Wrote My Way Through Suicidal Thoughts
Trigger warning: suicide, suicidal ideation, suicidal thoughts
I swiped right.
His phone unlocked. No password needed this time.
An electronic glitch opened his secret world to mine.
I tapped the icon shaped like an old-fashioned phone receiver trapped inside a chat bubble. I didn’t even have to scroll to find the conversation.
It was right on top. On top of his world.
That’s when I hit bottom. Independence Day weekend. We were headed to a BBQ. I hadn’t showered yet. My mind raced, but my feet couldn’t move.
Everyone says “time stood still” is a cliché. But it’s only a cliché until it happens to you.
Eventually, I forced myself to move and made my way to the bathroom. I stood in the shower for 30 minutes before I managed to shampoo my hair. Water streamed down my body as tears streamed down my face. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I wanted to die.
Not for the first time. That first time had taught me that I could write my way out. All I needed was inspiration.
But, first, I had to wait. I had to wait until after the BBQ. I had to be polite when all I wanted to do was yell profanities into the air — and at him. I had to eat potato salad when all I wanted to do was throw up. I had to sit at a picnic table when all I wanted to do was run. I had to pretend that everything was fine.
But, it wasn’t fine; I wasn’t fine. I didn’t think I would ever be fine again.
After the BBQ, there was a heart-to-heart. Then came the emotional exhaustion and numbness. After that came the racing thoughts. I didn’t know what else to do. I was desperate for a solution. So, I did what any self-respecting person does nowadays.
I got on Facebook. There, I found the Times of India Write India season 1 announcement. I went to the website and read the T&Cs. I realized I wasn’t eligible for the contest; it was open only to Indian citizens residing in India.
A glitch of birth prevented me from entering the contest.
But I didn’t let that stop me from writing.
TOI had just opened Amish’s prompt. I read it, realized I had to write about 16th century India, and decided that prompt was not going to work. Then, I went to the next writer’s page and clicked that prompt. That short prompt involved a Starbucks and a blue silk scarf. Then, I went to the next page, and then the next page, and so on. I went through all 11 prompts that hot July day. All were great prompts, but most didn’t fit my needs.
I returned to the second prompt. Two simple sentences set in a Starbucks — my home away from home, regardless of the country I called home. I could always rely on Starbucks to deliver that signature aroma, that representation of American luxury in any foreign location. The scarf matched the color of my eyes. The author even gave me my method: a dagger.
I decided to write to that prompt. My head was overwhelmed by bigger decisions. Writing seemed small by comparison. In truth, it was the biggest decision of my life, although I didn’t realize that at the time.
I began tapping out ideas on my phone while visiting a zoo in Idaho. I had not yet become a die-hard notebook carrier. That came later. At that moment, I could disappear into my phone, into my character, and into a fantasy world where all the endings were happy. Including mine.
I became frenzied in my writing. The scene in Starbucks came first. The map on the wall describes the one in the Powai location. I wrote and walked a lot that day — often simultaneously. I stopped at zoo exhibits to type rather than look at the animals. I missed many “living in the present” moments that day so that I could have “living in the future” moments like this one, sitting here, writing this essay for you to read.
The idea took shape quickly — and so did Divya, the main character, my fictional avatar. Divya was a young girl from Mumbai who had just lost a dream job in Dubai. Even that fiction was based in my personal history. I have often wondered about my decision to tell the story through the eyes of a young Indian girl. Maybe I needed distance from the events I wrote. Maybe I was just another clueless, appropriating white woman. Maybe we writers don’t control these serendipitous moments.
Eventually, I transferred the story outline to my computer. As I did so, I recovered from my pain enough to realize that I was not supposed to have seen that prompt. Only Amish’s prompt was supposed to be open. All others were supposed to be closed. Yet, I had seen them all.
Another glitch.
I continued to write, honing and editing the story over the next few weeks. As my real world seemed to be crumbling, I constructed a fictional world where I was safe — and alive. I posted the story on my blog when TOI opened the prompt officially. That short story is The Semicolon, the first of four Write India entries I wrote — but didn’t enter.
I have often wondered about the technical glitch that made that story possible. Buttons on the Internet are notoriously temperamental. In testing, they often misbehave like naughty electronic toddlers. Maybe the buttons worked as expected in test, but not when implemented. Maybe being outside India affected the button performance. Maybe no one tested all the buttons. That means that I am here today because of shoddy quality assurance.
Working on the story got me through my darkest days. It gave me something to look forward to, something to focus on outside myself when inside was in so much pain. The Semicolon helped preserve my life when I wanted to destroy it.
Still, I wondered about the “why.” Our human capacity to rationalize often leads us to explain the unexplainable with complex structures while ignoring the simplest solutions. Today, I understand that reading that prompt was a God thing, divine intervention. If you don’t believe me, Google “Divya” to learn what her name means in Hindi.
That’s why I am telling this story today. To share the hope that writing gave me. A few weeks ago, I walked 16 miles through center city Philadelphia at night in the Out of the Darkness Walk to stop suicide and spread the message of hope. As part of my fundraising goals, I promised to tell the true story of my short story The Semicolon.
The Semicolon is named in honor of Project Semicolon, a suicide prevention initiative whose tagline reads: your story is not over. The semicolon represents a pause in your life story, just as the semicolon is a pause in a sentence. It also represents the hope of life after a suicide attempt or ideation.
As an editor, I loved that punctuation could save lives. Including mine. This short story was my first since age 11, and it saved my life. With this short story, I transitioned from editor to writer and began a new chapter in my story. Because of this story, I realized that my story is not over.
And neither is yours.
I believe words matter, and so do you. You can use your words — whatever form they take — to work through your thoughts and feelings. You don’t need to be a writer or editor to use writing to help yourself.
If you are experiencing depression or suicidal thoughts, you are not alone. There is hope. In the US, you can reach out to the suicide prevention hotline at 1–800–273–8255 or text 741741. In India, you can reach these resources: http://www.suicide.org/hotlines/international/india-suicide-hotlines.html.
