The Weight of Keeping Someone Alive

Recently, there have been growing concerns about suicide. On Wednesday, October 22, I learned that an acquaintance had died by suicide — on the same day that Emmanuelle Atienza, daughter of Kuya Kim Atienza, also took her own life. Then, just this Saturday, October 25, my half-sister from my mother’s side told me she was absent from work because she had harmed herself again.

I have once harmed myself, too. I remember stabbing my leg with a fork several times. That feeling is familiar to me. When Emman once said, “When my emotions get really strong, especially negative emotions, I feel very tense, like everything — the world — is crushing down on me in every way,” I understood it completely.

My sister told me she wanted to feel physical pain because what was in her head was unbearable. I knew what she meant. When your mind becomes too loud, self-harm feels like an attempt to silence it — to transfer the pain somewhere you can see and control. Physical pain feels concrete, something you can tend to. But the pain of the mind? It feels impossible to touch, and even harder to heal.

After hearing what happened, I tried to help my sister. I prayed with her, and we decided that she would stay with me so she would not feel so alone. I want her to learn how to build a relationship with her Creator because I believe that only the Lord can truly heal us.

Still, I can’t help but hope that she never again feels the urge to harm herself — not because I told her to stop, but because she knows I am here, that she is not alone. I hope that somehow, my presence is enough to make her choose life again.

And yet, I’ll admit something difficult. Sometimes I wonder if, when I think of the possibility of losing her to suicide, I would even feel anything. It sounds heartless — but I know it’s not. It’s not apathy; it’s the mind’s way of protecting itself from the pain of losing someone you’re already afraid of losing. I know I’d be wrong to feel nothing, because deep inside, I do love her — but love can grow tired, too.

This experience made me reflect deeply. All these years, I was the one being taken care of — the baby of the family, the one protected and loved. I didn’t want that to change. Maybe that’s why I feel so lonely now, so out of touch with life. I’ve lost my parents, and with them, the comfort of being cared for. Perhaps I still haven’t fully accepted that I’m now an adult who can take care of herself.

I miss my parents. I miss how life felt more beautiful, happy, and safe when they were here.

And yet, I find myself struggling. I don’t want to take care of anyone. I’ve even told myself I don’t want to marry or have children — because I don’t want to sacrifice my time, effort, or money for others. I want to keep what’s mine. It’s hard to admit that. But I also see how, somewhere deep in my mind, I tell myself: “I’ve been there, I’ve overcome it — you can too.” I forget that healing takes time, and not everyone heals the same way.

Caring for someone who is mentally struggling can feel heavy. It’s one reason why people with depression often hesitate to reach out — because they sense the fatigue of those around them. And I understand that fatigue. When my sister cries or spirals again, I get tired. I want her to stop talking, to just get better right away. I want her to skip the pain and jump to the healing. But that’s not how I recovered either.

It’s strange — how those who have healed can become short-tempered. We lose patience with the pain that once mirrored our own. Shouldn’t healing make us more compassionate, more understanding?

Maybe healing doesn’t make us immune to exhaustion. It simply teaches us when to pause — to refill our own hearts so that we can return to others with gentleness once more.

I’m learning that. I’m still burdened, still tired, but I now understand why. And with that awareness, I can choose to rest instead of resent, to step back so I can love again.

Maybe in the coming days, I will fully accept that my parents will never come back. I will have to live many more years before I meet them again in the afterlife. But until then, I must continue living — perhaps not always happily, but always truly.

I hope we become more patient, more understanding, and more willing to listen to those who struggle. They don’t need our judgment, only our presence.

I hope I become more loving and empathetic, just as others were toward me before. We grow tired, yes — but we can rest, and then come back again.

Maybe this is what growing up really means.
And maybe, just maybe — I already have.