Words by Valerie Eng. Illustration by Elizabeth Goh.

Content warning: suicidal ideation, graphic injuries, and brain stimulation interventions.

dear friend,

today i come to you with less of a joyful grin and four lines of typed-out laughter and more of arms made of blood. is that not what i am made of? just blood. the grass is always greener on the other side. i think of the carbonic anhydrase and how something so bad can be so crucial. i wonder, if the bad in Valencia and my other friends in this world just amplifies their goodness.

i have been taught that every person is multi-faceted. i have been trained to love the different parts of a person all at once. but if i take it a little further, does it not mean loving those who threaten to kill me? i don’t want to argue more because i know the default answer is that i should leave them. i just feel like i’m shortchanging them a little – what would happen if i gave them a piece of my flesh to cling onto? would they be satiated then?

i’m not sure why i’m thinking so much. the brain is a gift but misguidance makes the hand turn the dagger to one’s mouth. is that what’s happening?

my head hurts. i got back in yesterday with my hands full of cake. the strawberry butcher is in the house as well. she makes precise incisions like a surgeon and splats them on the wall with glee. she is calm and faithful and reckless and mad all at once. i stand in the doorway and she sees me. an orange power is activated. the door comes crashing down and i run.

i stumble and before i can pick myself up, i am reminded of my metal legs. a hole eats me. i am slipping from storey to storey and my hands bump from railing to barbed wire and my feet are stiff and locked – but actually i am jumping by choice. i envision the ground coming up to me and the pain in my chest and back as i make contact with the ground, but here, now, there is no floor to stop me. i plummet over the edge and then over another edge and nothing is stopping me until –

instead of breaking my back i am thrusted forward by the force of a breeze. but i am still falling, invertedly. the sky touches my knees and i hear the voice from 3 hours ago, saying darkness is no longer my friend. i am lost and alone and lonely. the only way is forward, i say.

i hate myself for saying that. friend, don’t you see the point? i am so hypocritical. i don’t belong to darkness anymore and at the same time, i am not a child of the light because i am such a bad person with tendencies of the dark. my breaths are deep and rhythmic, like how i was taught to breathe when my lungs collapsed in the trauma bay of the ER. like what i had to do with the spirometer.

friend, come to me and show me your face. let me hold your hand and know that you are real. let me hold your hands and feel the blood beneath your skin. let me know that you, too, have carbonic anhydrase.

friend, come to me and show me your eyes that hold the stars and your nose that your mother hates.

friend, i am praying that you are real and that i am real and that what i’m feeling is real and okay.

friend, i am praying that you don’t hate me but that you see my fullness and brokenness and can understand dialectics. i am praying that tonight you are beside me as i rest. that you become the Nicolette in my life and hold my arms as i punch the wall in dissociative rage. i am praying that this emptiness that disappeared for a week closes up and i don’t have to go for ECT or TMS anymore. i am praying that God hears my prayers and that one day i can send this to a real friend.

i hope you are doing well. actually, i’m not sure what to hope for. i’m not sure if i should hope for your death because you’re not real and are therefore a bad hallucination, i’m not sure if i should hope for your safety because i must love my enemies. i have a million questions to ask and i wish i could say one answer would solve it all but i cannot. all i know is that i want to recover.

i’m going to sleep now. i’ll talk to you more tomorrow.

Val

Valerie lost her sister to suicide when she was fourteen years old. When she feels alone, she has hallucinations of her friends who keep her company. Valerie has schizoaffective disorder.

Elizabeth creates visuals that revolve around topics of mental health, human emotions and relationships. She strives to create an open community where we can share our struggles and get through them together, one day at a time. You can follow her on Instagram (@moppyart) where she posts comics and artworks that are close to her heart.

A series, I hope - 5 July 18