I Didn’t End My Life. I Ate Nasi Padang.

 

A few days ago, I strolled around on my scooter during a lunch break. I needed that session. I pushed myself to get out of my room. I pushed myself to make the effort so I could stabilize my racing—almost toxic—thoughts toward myself.

When I was in the garage, I warmed up my scooter. I talked to it. I named it James Hetfield—yeah, that Papa Het. I said, “Sorry, I haven’t had a chance to take you out for almost a week. I promise you, we’ll have another road trip as soon as we can, okay? Now, be a good lad. We’ll just stroll around for a couple of hours, yeah?”

January came quite fast for me, especially after the end-of-year break in Nusa Lembongan. I kept telling people who asked how it was there the same answer every time:

“I think that was the first vacation that made me forget almost everything. I forgot about work, dates, days, and time. I was drowned in the joy of being alone and enjoying myself. I can’t wait to go back there.”

People who listened looked genuinely happy for me. A few of them even hugged me and said, “Oh, I’m happy for you, Ega. You deserve that kind of vacation.”

I really do want to go back to Nusa Lembongan. Spend hours and hours in the ocean. Talk to it. Just be fully present.

I love every single version of myself—when I’m working, solo traveling, or even when I’m just lying in bed, doom-scrolling, or trying to binge-watch something on Netflix with my cat, Bella. But it’s been getting harder to do that in the past two weeks. Life is just… living. Work is piling up. Offline and online meetings. Deadlines. And of course, those intrusive thoughts. If you know what I mean.

So when I strolled around with James, heading north of Ubud, I started talking to God and myself—literally.

I opened the conversation with myself first:

“What’s with the gloomy mood and the lack of self-confidence lately, Ega? Don’t you dare bring post-holiday syndrome here. We already passed that.”

Then I answered myself:

“The potential World War III. Apocalypse. Doomsday. And we live in Indonesia—you already know how this could go. The uncertainties. The possibilities. The bills we have to pay every single month. We don’t feel safe at all. We’ve been living on the edge, trying so hard to stay afloat. And it’s already beyond exhaustion.”

I was still riding my scooter, and we were almost at the border between Tegallalang and Kintamani. I wasn’t in the mood to ride that far, so I stopped on the side of the road, took a breather, lit a cigarette, then responded to my own answer:

“Valid answer. Yeah, I understand your worries. But it doesn’t mean you have to focus on this, right? We’d better prepare ourselves for the worst-case scenario.”

I kid you not—I heard myself respond again, snapping harder with my own logic:

“Worst-case scenario, huh? Like we’re not already living in it.”

A pickup truck drove slowly past me. In the back, there were maybe eight to ten people wearing Balinese ceremonial outfits. I believe they were heading home from a ceremony in another village. They were laughing while eating something.

I’ve rarely seen Balinese people stop doing ceremonies, even in the worst weather. They keep doing them. Nothing breaks their faith or their culture—not even a thunderstorm. They just keep going, at their own pace, in their own rhythm.

It reminded me that as long as we’re still six feet above the ground, and we still have duties and responsibilities to our beliefs or our culture, no matter how hard it gets, we just have to do it. We try. We do our best. Then we leave the rest to God and the universe.

I know I lost my faith that day, and that ride was one of my attempts to get it back. And I’ll only claim what’s mine—nothing less, nothing more. Just what’s already mine.

Then I asked God:

“Why do you keep challenging me with at least two or three of the same things over and over again? Haven’t I proven myself enough that I’ve passed the lesson? And why do those people—who are obviously stupider than me—get more success than I do? Not just financially, but physically, and maybe spiritually too? Fuck mental health—everyone has their own sickness anyway. I know life isn’t fair, but why do you keep testing me with the same things again and again? You know I’m beyond exhausted. So why won’t you give me a break?”

I was so angry. I still feel like a big, fat failure toward myself.

I don’t give a single fuck about people who are already in my life—the ones I used to take care of. I gave my best to them, and they used it well. I’m talking about me. Myself. And I.

The disappointment toward myself keeps piling up, and I don’t know when I’ll finally be able to pay that debt.

I sat on the dirt behind my scooter, lit another cigarette, and said,

“If YOU—” I pointed at the sky, referring to God, “—think I don’t deserve what I think I deserve, then just cut me out, man. I’m telling you. I’m tired of trying every single day, thinking maybe this time it’ll be different, and it turns out it’s not. Same shit, different day. I’ve had enough. I’ve seen enough. I’ve definitely felt enough of whatever you want to call this. Just cut me out.”

Have you ever had your heart broken so badly that it hurts, but you can’t even cry? You just hurt. And yet, you can still feel it.

I drove back to Tegallalang and stopped at my usual Padang restaurant to get some takeaway food. The waitress greeted me,

“Finally, you came again! How are you? We still have Cincang Kambing—one of your favorites. Do you want that?”

She’s younger than me, wears a hijab, and always looks cheerful.

“Sure, I’d love that. Just one portion. You know my portion anyway,” I replied.

While she was preparing my food, she told me about their new branches opening in several locations around Ubud. She looked so excited sharing the news. I was genuinely happy for her and for the owner.

I told myself,

“One more day, Ega. Just give yourself one more day—with this delicious Nasi Padang. This comes first. Everything else can wait.”

Am I still disappointed in myself? Oh yeah.

Do I still think about ending my life? Absolutely.

Do I still think I’m a big, fat failure? For sure.

But honestly, I can manage—after I enjoy my Nasi Padang.

And today, I’m still here, writing this, after I ate my Nasi Padang.