Note: I wrote this in mid-April, but I couldn’t convince myself to post it. I feel like now is the time.
I just want to preface this with saying that if you’re my friends or family, do not internalize feeling responsible for me being suicidal. If anyone is triggered by speaking harshly to/about yourselves, I hope you will read this and join me in trying to heal.
I am honestly terrified; this is the first time I am admitting this to anyone who isn’t close to me, but I know that I need to be raw and open because I know someone out there needs me to be.
I wrote these words on September 20, 2017:
I’ve been depressed since I was 12 years old. There, I’ve said it. 11 years of slowly fading from existence, 11 years of going from feeling seen and loved and appreciated to feeling like the gum under someone’s shoe. No, worse. I feel like the ant that people go out of their way to step on. I am at a point in my life why I wonder why I’m even here. I cry almost every day. When I don’t cry, I think about crying. Sometimes the weight of being me feels so overwhelming that I just lie in bed and stare at the wall. I feel like nothing. I hate being here. Why am I here?
This is part of a four-page document which, since I wrote, I haven’t read until now. Am I beyond this? No. Do I still have down days? Absolutely. Am I a survivor? Thank God, somehow, I am.
The darkness of this paragraph isn’t even the darkest moment in the entire letter. So, why am I sharing this if I’m not going to share the whole thing, or at least elaborate? Why am I shaking while writing this, terrified of how this will be received?
Because I cried out for help and no one heard. I do not say this to make anyone feel guilty. I felt that no one heard my cries because they accepted it as something else.
My seclusion came across as being antisocial. My canceling plans came across as being flakey. My forced smile came across as being tired. My sleeping in came across as “staying up too late.” My staying in bed all day came across as laziness.
In reality, these were my cries for help. These were the signs that life had overwhelmed me, defeated me, drained me.
Pay attention to your friends and family. Do that for them, free of judgment, free of a harsh tone, free of ego. I thank God that I was able to use the tools provided to me to help pull myself out of that darkness but realize not everyone has those tools.
I’ll be honest— I do not believe people should be held accountable for their friends being suicidal. That is an unfair cross to force people to bear, and, ultimately, your mental health is your own responsibility and journey. However, at times, someone reaching out despite not knowing what I had going on was the thing that kept me from completely giving up.
I am in a better place now. I think. I started therapy, I meditate, and I have begun the journey of internal healing. My cries for help are my responsibility, and if no one hears them, I have to hear myself.
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