1985 (Part II)

The year was 1985.
1985 was and will forever be unforgettable.
Unforgettable trials and triumphs marked my days.
Days of bliss preceded days of bleakness which led me to a place of depression.

Any kind of depression is lethal and should be addressed promptly. Yet, my depression was particularly dangerous because, by then, I had mastered the art of keeping those closest to me in the dark about the true condition of my heart, my mind, my well-being.

Even today, judging from the long hiatus between my writing of 1985 (Part I) and this entry, I realize how incredibly easy it is still to suppress those long ago thoughts and feelings which used to engulf my whole spirit and body. Hence, I am stepping forward in sharing my journey of faith; I will courageously walk down memory lane to January 1985.

On my first day back at L'Ecole Primaire Mixte Bethanie from the holiday season, a deafening whisper entered my then 10-year old brain after a particularly brutal recess -- my least favorite period of the school day. Featuring uncommon harassment and deep shame, recess on that particular day revitalized and increased the downward spiral of my depression.

"Death is your only escape." 

The horrid, yet quite inviting, thought penetrated my skull as though guided by the skillful hands of a neurologist. I turned and looked around to verify that no one else had addressed me specifically. All the other students seemed to be hard at work, listening to the teacher and taking notes. They were completely oblivious to the life-threatening conversation I was having in my mind.

I, too, sat and was hard at work. But, unfortunately, my work was altogether different from that of my classmates. I was not listening to the teacher nor was I taking notes from the lecture.

Instead, I was numbly listening to my own poisonous thoughts. I sat within the lies of inward shame and distorted reality. I cocooned myself inside the beliefs of self-deprecation, worthlessness, bitterness, self-hatred, and resentment.

A deep sadness enveloped my entire being. I lost interest in school and in life in general. I had trouble concentrating and focusing on things that once mattered to me a great deal. I began wishing that either death would simply come to me or that I would go to it willingly.

"You are so worthless and alone."
"It would be so much better if you were dead!"
"Nobody would miss your unfortunate face."
"Is life on this earth truly worth living?"
"Death would eradicate all ridicule and shame from your sorry life."

The more the lies came to my head, the longer I allowed myself to entertain the thought of potentially taking my own life which, I thought, would end the torment I endured from the bullies and mockers of my young life.

An opportunity arose one friday evening when family events were orchestrated in such a way that I found myself all alone at home. I told myself it was now or never because privacy in Haiti has always been a precious commodity.

Yet, how would I actually face death?

With time running out, my eyes and mind were busily scanning the house to find the instrument that would accomplish the ghoulish deed. Finally, overcome with the drumming of suicidal thoughts, I was merely looking at the kerosene lamp placed on the kitchen table when a sinister plan took a hold of my irrational brain.

"Burn down the house and yourself with it!"
I filed the demand into my brain and decided I would follow it to the letter.

So, I slowly and carefully removed the lamp's outer glass and exposed the bright and menacing flame. I then guided the flame to the northeastern corner of the tablecloth and, within seconds, the whole thing was burning.

Clear as a bell, a question popped into my head,

"DO YOU REALLY WANT TO DO THIS?"

In an instant, I grasped the selfishness of my entertaining suicidal thoughts.
In a flash, I realized how precious life was and how arrogant I was to decide when mine should end.
In a moment, I knew that God was using my depression to draw me closer to Him. He made me understand that death itself was seeking to deceive me.

So, quickly resolving not to let my family's house burn to the ground, I snatched the burning tablecloth and proceeded to extinguish the fire with my own bare hands, all the while burning my hands in the process. To this day, I still carry the scars of that burning incident on the back of my left hand -- they are daily remembrancers of the cost of life to me.

Sadly, I could not face the truth of telling my parents. When Manmie and Papi returned home that night, I fabricated a story to explain why the tablecloth went missing, why the kitchen smelled like smoke, and why I needed Manmie's help with my burnt left hand.

I still had more learning to do . . .
I still had more growing to do . . .
I still had more living to do . . .

Father, if not for Your love, where would I be? Had You not been the horn of my salvation, I could have lost my life on that January evening so many years ago. You are my strength, my rock, my fortress, and my deliverer. Only Your joy could have replaced the depression of my youth and transformed it into a story of hope, love, and faith. May I follow You all the more gladly throughout the length You have ordained for my days! In Christ, I pray. Amen!