Sounding the alarm on suicide

Raising the alarm on the rising incidence of suicide in the province, a rise that is also observed almost everywhere in the planet, Ilocos Norte Governor Matthew M. Manotoc made an appeal for everyone “to lend a helping hand while we can… to look after all of those around us,” and mean it when we ask others, “kumusta ka na?”

The multitude of difficulties brought by this pandemic has made life even more unbearable to those who are already suffering, mostly in silence. To me, this phenomenon is personal. I have seen the monster in the eye, and I know the feeling from both sides of the equation: as the lender of help, and also as its desperate recipient.

Over 10 years ago, I would stare at an empty chair in a classroom where I taught, and, ridden with guilt, would ceaselessly ask myself if there was something I could have done to save a life.

He was a college freshman from a small town. His classmates said they never noticed anything wrong with him. His parents likewise observed no unusual behavior exhibited by their only child. Everything seemed normal and usual with this boy’s life until he was seen hanging, lifeless.

As a teacher, it was my first encounter with suicide by a student. And it was not to be the last.

It is easy to blame suicide victims for being weak. Others may even criticize them for being selfish—thinking only of themselves, and not of those they will leave behind. But what really runs in the mind of a person determined to take his life?

I have some idea, for I, too, seriously had thoughts of ending my life when I was a teenager. It was the end of my third year in college, and I was popular in school for reasons all good. That semester, I was sent to international competitions, became the most awarded student leader, and was recognized as an outstanding student. Everyone was so proud of me. People shook my hand to congratulate me for my achievements. I was, to many, a model student.

But something terrible happened, suddenly. I received a failing grade in one of my major subjects. It was unexpected and I was sure I did not deserve it. The professor claimed absolute right to manipulate how grades were to be computed. It was very clear to me that it was unfair.

My world crumbled. Because of the failing mark, I was sure that I would lose my scholarship, and would miss my chance to graduate with honors. Word about my failure spread quickly around the campus, and those who were congratulating me a few days back began looking at me with pity, if not ridicule. I was up in the clouds one moment, and down to a very dark space the next.

Night and day, I locked up in my room, stared at the ceiling, deeply convinced that life was no longer worth living. I tried to justify suicide with philosophical musings. I also thought of the professor who gave me a failing grade, and imagined how guilty he would feel about my death. And I longed to extricate myself from pain.

Decided to commit suicide after five days of isolation, I went to Binondo to buy the most toxic substance I could ingest (a powerful pesticide whose mere vapor could make my lungs collapse). Before going home, I dropped by a Chinese restaurant for a last meal. When I arrived at the dorm, I lay down in bed again, stared blankly at the ceiling, and imagined my impending death one last time.

My suicide plan did not materialize, and, obviously, I lived to tell this story. Three things kept the poison bottle unopened: thoughts of my family, the graphic images of hell on my mind, but what really saved me was a persistent knock on my door by a dormmate. He sensed that something was wrong, and urged me to talk about it. He convinced me not to push through with my plan.

In the next days, I decided to pick up the pieces and live with courage. I filed an appeal for my scholarship, and, after a long process, San Beda (which was apparently more compassionate than Kristel Tejada’s UP) decided not to revoke it. As it turned out, there was no explicit rule that barred those who had failing grades from receiving academic awards. I did finish with honors, although they had to change the rules after I graduated, making me the school’s one and only honor graduate with a 5.0 on his transcript.

A few years after graduation, I visited my alma mater and accidentally crossed paths with my professor—that professor who brought me misery. He said he was impressed with one of my articles published in a national newspaper, and that he required his students to read my work. He said he heard that I was offered a job in Malacañang, and that he was proud of me. That picture of my professor smiling at me and tapping my shoulder in a show of approval was the exact opposite of what I imagined on my could-have-been death bed: a professor crying in guilt in front of my coffin.

Of course, not only young people commit suicide. Military generals. Politicians. Entertainers. Teachers. Lawyers. Farmers. We hear of them claiming their lives, and the worst part is that we are getting used to it, or, at least, have become insensitive to the suffering of others. Suicide may be a very personal thing and one could even strongly argue that society must respect an individual’s choice to end his life. But there are those who only need a listening ear and some words of hope to make them realize, the way I realized then, that life can still be beautiful. And then there are others who need professional help, some imbalances that can be addressed through proper treatment and medication.

Once I referred to a school administrator the case of a student who opened up to me. He was a scholar and student leader who suddenly stopped school. When I got the chance to talk to him, I figured that all symptoms seem to point to clinical depression. I was hoping for a referral to a qualified professional, to a psychiatrist no less, but the administrator’s advice was for the student to “just pray to God because He will never forsake us.”

True, prayers never fail. But God does answer our supplications through people who are both willing and properly equipped to offer help. There is, dear karikna, a lot of serious work needed to raise awareness on mental health and to elevate suicide prevention efforts. In many cases, the treatments are complex, but asking “kumusta ka na?” and meaning it may truly be the first step to help people choose life.