Potential by Jasmin

Potential by Jasmin - June 2022 Scholarship Essay

I’ve always liked the sciences, I suppose I can start it off like that. I’ve found fondness in the idea of electrons bouncing between atoms or how a metal slowly rusts. But I’ve always been enticed by energy. Kinetic, mechanical, electromagnetic, but the one that stubbornly stuck was potential. To have so much possibility, so much opportunity, that one has energy. An infinite buzz within the constant nothingness, as well as an all-encompassing extension of what our world is.

But what if that vanished one day? What if the world went dark and when the light came on, there was not a remaining prospect for something bright? What if someone’s potential disappeared? Just like that. Not a flicker nor a whisper of something of the past, but to simply diminish with no further notice.

Dark thoughts never have and never will be new to me. My family has a history of mental illness, so it was practically inevitable. I dealt with it the best I could, but there was always some kind of spiral of thoughts that seemed to taunt me. They filled the edges of my mind and left me numb and quiet. I could still get up in the morning, but that isn’t necessarily where the standard of life should be.

So I looked for distractions. I looked for hobbies, sports, films, and then books. It felt nice to be absorbed into another life, in which there was action and adventure around every corner.
It was a Saturday afternoon when I wandered through the aisles of books. Not many people were there, and perhaps that was for the best. It always made me feel more at peace to hear the muted sound of my footsteps on the carpet, or the quiet sliding noise when a book was pulled out of its place.

I was near one of the last rows when I stopped. There was nothing of complete significance, but I saw my name on a book. Realistically, Jasmine is a common name, but it still intrigued me. I picked up the beige, hardcover novel and read the front. My Heart and Other Black Holes. I almost rolled my eyes at how similar it sounded to a dramatic, angsty teen. But still, the hesitant scoff it provided to me was enough of a reason to check it out and take it home.

When I opened this book, it didn’t seem to be anything new at first. A girl in high school has to juggle the responsibility of family, friends, school, and eventually, there would be a boy. That isn’t to say the repetitive nature was bad. I mean, I still picked out the book at the end of the day. I still continued to read it.

However, I was a few pages in when I tensed. I held my breath for a moment as my eyes stiffened on the page. My grip on the book tightened just barely, not enough to damage the parchment, but enough to keep myself together. The main character was drawing a noose in her notebook, a passive action, a casual doodle. And I was supposed to sit there and continue reading, as if my heart didn’t almost burst already.

I think I closed the book for a moment. I sat there, I breathed, and then I opened the book again. There was something interesting about how the kind of reaction was provoked so soon. I skimmed some sections and reread others, but my skin always seemed to hold a slight chill.

Aysel is the main protagonist, who had an enjoyment of physics and the crumbling weight of suicidal thoughts. She wants to kill herself, but she feels as though she can’t do it alone. So, she looks onto websites for a suicide partner, and meets Roman. Their conversations at first stick to suicide, but throughout their talks, Aysel starts feeling something for Roman. It’s brushed off as simple care or concern until Roman attempts to kill himself a day before they agreed to do it.

With the book being sectioned out by how long before the expected planned death, I felt my heart drop. I’m truly unable to describe my despair with words, as pure emotion always smudges when one attempts to translate it into professional writing. But I will give my best attempt.

I wanted to kill myself. Perhaps it’s ironic, but I felt a pull. Yet I felt a push. I don’t cry when I read books, but I felt as though I wanted to. When the book finished, I was left as I had felt once before, numb and quiet. I wanted to pick up the book again and read from the beginning, when I didn’t have so much personal attachment to the characters.

Then it hit. Like an apple falling from a tree for Isaac Newton, an idea fell into my hands. That’s the effect of suicide. Crushing, suffocating emotions.

I decided not to kill myself. It sounds simple in the grand scheme of things, but it wasn’t that I would live for another moment, minute, or even month.

I would live.

After 300 pages, I decided against waking up because it’s simply what my body did. I planned for a future. It started with joining the book club at my school, it extended to becoming the leader, and now I’m here. Four years later, still alive.