Fall Semester has begun.

I’m graduating soon, so the nervousness wore off a long time ago. I’m better at scheduling, so it seems easier to get all the homework done this time. I only have three classes left, so it is definitely a novel feeling. I can have more time to myself, though I doubt I can use it to do anything interesting yet.

After about two years, I can say I have become accustomed to college. I know my way around the campus, I can help the freshmen, and I have friends to fulfill my social needs, which is something I would have never thought I would have if I had looked forward to this years ago. People grow sometimes.

September is Suicide Prevention Month, so my counseling department has a plethora of tasks for me to complete. Cutting cards and sorting pouches were boring, but decorating was more manageable.

Students come more frequently to the department too. The need for counseling sessions was bigger than what I previously assumed. Most of them were okay, but some were a bit emotional. They all looked better after their meetings, so I’m happy for them.

When I was doing some content for our newsletter and an upcoming workshop, I noticed a discussion about suicide. It was on Threads. It seems like there are more suicidal stories appearing on my feed recently. It did provide me with a certain feeling of melancholy to read them.

I think it was after my own suicide attempt, but I couldn’t remember if it was in the eleventh or twelfth grade. I believe it was freshly post-COVID when we got a school-wide announcement that a male student had hanged himself. He was in the same grade as me, in my math class, and they set up a memorial place for him in the school for a short time. I didn’t know him well, but I had seen him once or twice in the past. He was like any high school boy you could think of: energetic, outgoing, and smart as well. I heard from my friends that he was very happy and never seemed sad, but his parents were putting a lot of pressure on him. It makes sense, since he was their prized child. Now, the only thing left for them to do was cry in anguish and regret over their own mistakes.

But among the condolences was criticism. Some thought he was “ungrateful” for what his parents had sacrificed for him, and claimed that “mental health issues” were nonexistent. I hated it so much. Why would his death be blamed on him? It is as if someone would normally choose to die given a viable alternative. I wonder how many suicide attempts went unnoticed back then because no one was there to talk about them.

When I first heard about it, I couldn’t process what was going through my mind. I was surprised at why someone would do that to themselves, but I quickly realized I could have been that person.

In Vietnam and many countries in Asia, education is valued so much more than almost everything else. While you might think that is the same in any other country, learning isn’t just a practice; it is a culture here. It means waking up at 6:00 AM for a 7:00 AM class, where you might study until around noon. After that come extracurriculars: some might choose to do club work, while others will begin their night classes almost immediately to prepare for upcoming exams. Waking up, studying, eating, studying, eating, sleeping: rinse and repeat. There is homework as well, and some assignments might take an all-nighter just to turn them in the very next day. While it gave me a high baseline of knowledge, which was evident when I came to the US, I was robbed of almost everything else. I didn’t learn how to communicate, how to be physically active, how to take care of myself, or how to be prepared for society. I don’t blame this on anyone, though, because it is more nuanced than just that.

My point is, I know many people like me whose entire youth was spent studying while their parents took care of the rest. Most of the time, they would graduate into nothing, because it was nothing from the start: their choice to study was usually their parents’ wish, not theirs. It took me years to learn how to love learning again. For the longest time, I felt like a marionette, and everything I did was to satisfy my parents. That shouldn’t have been the case. It should have been my life, not theirs.

Perhaps my shock at that boy’s death wasn’t just a reaction, but an unconscious hesitation toward the idea of taking my own life. I realized that I didn’t want to die; I just couldn’t fathom living the way I was. The reason I chose to continue was because of my curiosity about what could happen next, rather than a desire to give up.

This might be unpopular, but I believe if somebody truly wants to die, we should let them. Emphasis on truly.

I hope whoever is thinking about killing themselves can answer two questions:

1. Are you sure this is the end of this life?

Unlike most things you might do, death is irreversible. I hope you can contemplate whether there is anything worth seeing or finding out in this life that you are motivated to know. Because no one knows what happens after death, and while realistically I’d say nothing happens, I can’t say it would be the end of you entirely. But it will be the end of you here: you in this existence, you in this experience. At least I think so.

2. Do you have a goal in this life?

I wish you the best in finding something you strive for. In my opinion, you should not live for the sake of anyone but yourself. Your parents, children, or dependents should not be the forces that dictate your actions, unless you truly believe that fulfilling a certain role in their lives makes a positive change in your own. Some fight for a cause they believe in, while others look for something more personal, whether it is happiness or life fulfillment. But I believe you can find it in you before making up your mind.

For me, I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for, but my desire to die has been long gone. After learning about myself, I now decide to live because I want to know where life might take me, and because I think I have something to make this life memorable. You might say it’s a drive for unlimited possibilities.

I feel like after almost killing myself, I have felt more comfortable risking my life in other ways. Maybe it is because I don’t treat my life as a precious, fragile thing anymore, but because of this mindset, I was able to do so many things I was once afraid of. In just a few more years, I want to do research, do advocacy work, get a job, and morph into the version of myself I dream of. A lot of my new discoveries about myself came from other people in my life, who unknowingly shaped me simply because I chose to go out there and observe them.

I wonder what will happen in the future, but I know I will try to figure it out.

“そうしかたがない
仕方がない
気持ちいいからしかたがない
くるしそう
消えいりそう
だからかわいいかわいそう

不幸, 不幸, 不幸, 不幸
不幸を売って生きてます
悲しい悲しい
不幸屋の娘.”

(“Indeed, it is no use
It is no use
It is no use because it feels so good
Doesn’t it seem dreadful?
As if I am vanishing
That is why I am so pitiable 

Misfortune, misfortune, misfortune, misfortune
I sell misfortune for a living
I am the sad, sad
Girl who sells misfortune.”)

-きくおはな (KikuoHana). 不幸屋の娘. 2017