if hamlet had a therapist

This project is an adaptation of Hamlet, in which Hamlet is alive and well, having healed from his previous trauma, and is writing a memoir about his life. This exert is an adaptation of Act 3 Scene 1 in the play.

To Be Or Not To Be

I’d heard other people talk about rock bottom, but I was never sure how it felt until this moment. On paper, it sounds quite peaceful. A cool, natural, resting point, to collect thoughts and make a strategy to begin climbing. In reality, it does not work out like that. The rocks are sharp and jagged, impaling and poking every inch of your body and identity, and the bottom lies so low that even mere rays of sunlight refuse to crawl down to greet you.

I feel immense empathy for anyone who goes through that same flatline of enthusiasm with life. I can remember the moment exactly, and its one that I’ve revisited and rethought and relived and sat with over and over. My thoughts ran and ran and ran until one day they just… paused. I cant do this anymore, I said. Okay, so don’t. The pieces clicked for one dazzling second where everything seemed to align with ease and perfection, I felt like I had cracked the code to fixing everything. And my idea was death. What a sick, sick thing to say. The solution quickly came tumbling down, but for that one moment I felt infinite. I wondered if everyone toyed with the life death paradox with the same intensity and frequency as I did. Humans, man. What is it with us always needing to feel special? Feeling pride from individuality, but shame from isolation, enjoyment of community, but monotony from normality. 

I was unclear on whether it made me better in some way, to keep fighting. This narrative that I had been taught forever, of God giving his tough battles to strong soldiers, of everyone facing hardship, it felt like it barely even scraped the sides of how I was feeling. Most of my life I was able to keep my emotions to dregs at the bottom of a cup, but now my billowing feelings were overflowing and flooding not only my only existence but those around me too. I was angry, upset, lost, scared. Losing a parent is enough for anyone to understand my despair, but now I’m also managing knowing that my own kin killed him. We tried to keep it quiet at the time, but people love to chat. Hearing gossip about the most unhealed parts of your life is a whole new ballgame of pain.

I was struggling with life’s purpose, a common grapple faced by many my age. It’s one thing to struggle. Most university students will report feelings of isolation, home sickness, identity issues. But now I was facing my own time of hardship with an extra million eyes, goggling. A working student is allowed to feel this way. The Prince of Denmark, however, is not. Every day I spiralled further, while knowing that every day I hold it together for appearances is another day closer to exploding into public surveillance oblivion. I was powerless. I toyed with the idea that ending it all would be the only way to really have power over myself anymore. At least then I wouldn’t have to deal. At least then the noise would all stop.

I remember mostly that I don’t remember. My life is those few months was a vapid haze, and the fragmented memories are painful to rehash even now. I was fighting mental battles, so much so even those around me were worried for my health. Although I have now made a decent recovery, and can manage my symptoms and even crises that occur, I remember how terrifying it was to discover how ill I actually was. Sure, I had reason to be distressed. But the mental torture it caused me was extreme and excruciating. I remember sometimes even as my brain babbled on that it would become so overwhelming that I would catch myself uttering aloud. To this day I am still usure how much people actually heard of what I thought was my internal monologue, and I don’t want to know either.

I remember reaching out hope that perhaps the solace of death would be like a beautiful sleep. I imagined that I would feel more free will and autonomy as a dead man than as the young soul I was at the time. I was truly trapped, in a deep and entrenching mental prison, that suffocated and stifled every exit I tried to make. But I wasn’t sure. And in the moment, that undecidedness was deafening and painful, but I recognise that now as the thing that kept me alive. That tiny inkling inside of me that said I don’t know what’s after death, I don’t know if it will makes things easier, ultimately became my fear of committing. And while in that moment, I felt cowardly, and unworthy, I do now see that as the universe giving me a second chance. That seed planted in my brain helped me to grow and escape the anguish that was my thoughts. For that, I will be eternally grateful.

Now, after years of unpacking, and terminology-learning, and discovering concepts like trauma and mental illness, I look back on that boy with fond and pitiful eyes. It’s almost as if he exists outside of me, I don’t recognise him as part of myself, but he is my child or my sibling, that I feel the urge to hold close and dear, and explain its not his fault, and that everything will be alright. I love my previous self, which took a lot of work. But he was tenacious, and inquisitive, and he did not back down. He could of. I could of. But I didn’t. And I am proud of that. And so, if anyone out there just needs to hear it- it gets better. You can figure it out. There is a method behind all this madness, whether its spiritual or religion, or fate or destiny, or just plain luck, the beauty of humanity comes with our mess of thoughts and trail of complication we leave behind at every step.

If there’s one thing that can break a boy from a never ending spiral of overthinking, its love. And I had that alright, I had that in spades. I cannot disclose of her identity out of my respect and admiration for the woman, although anyone who knew me in those days could see how besotted I was from miles away. She was beautiful, the kind of beautiful that stops you right in your tracks, and that she did. Even just crossing paths with her was enough to snap me awake and remember why I must stay alive, must keep fighting. She never got that chance. And that is a guilt I carry with me, every single day.