I have never been suicidal. I have been the holder of many suicidal thoughts. I have shouldered dark fantasies from those I’ve loved and those I’m supposed to love.
It’s either a discovery, or frank conversation, or a moment overwhelmed with warped thoughts that telling someone else is only slightly less painful than going through with it.
Now there’s a shared burden, and maybe that brings some relief, I wouldn’t know. I only know that it brings an enlightening and a river full of worry.
When we are not holding your hand while you’re tucked into in-patient hospital beds we are counting how long it was until the last occurrence; wondering if we should count ourselves lucky for having had a longer period between worry or not. Or we are weighing if your plan was plausible this time. And we are trying ever so hard to not picture a next time that this situation mirrors all the same helplessness.
I don’t know what it’s like to have a burden for a brain that twists your thoughts and contemplations for life instead of finding a solution to happiness. I will not pretend that that life is easy. However, I cannot believe that still—that hard life—is worth giving up.
I have never been suicidal. But I am a daughter of the dead. I am a friend to the complicated. I lover to the wounded. And I’ll play my role.
We, holders of suicidal thoughts, can’t make it all right. So, we’ll just hold your hand in in-patient hospital beds and start the count over.