By blood or brain, sometimes it’s just in you.

We aren’t all doctors, and if we were, not even they have the answers. Doctors of hearts or doctors of brains, not everything can be diagnosed or cured or even treated. I believe some are born with suicide within, it’s in my blood, it’s in my brain. It’s in my father, my mother and my sisters’. I can hide from it and run from it and pretend I have control of it, but it’s there, being patted and talked to and calmed and challanged. All the time, it’s there. Shopping and milk and tea and birthdays and easter and jobs and pay and tax and arguments and conflict or joy can sometimes distract and fill and avert from it. Sitting inside, making me cry when I remember it’s there. “Selfish”, they say, about the boy who hung himself. “Lost”, they say, aout the girl who OD’d. But they were always destined to take control, to make their pain stop someway, one way or another. It’s not right, but I could be wrong. I am not the Gods of this earth and beyond. I didn’t choose to be here, nor would I choose to leave here. Things happen. Maybe it’ll be a bus, a crash, a fit, a shock or a metal bar. However it happens, it’s out of my hands. I’d never gash or hang or swallow or perish, I don’t have it in me. The only question I can’t answer it ‘why’. It’d happen if I had it in me, but I don’t. I don’t have it in me. Suicide is stronger than me, It’s the suicide within that keeps me here, keeps me thinking about it, makes me think about it and want a car crash whenever it surfaces to say hello. Always there when people are argry and mad and irrational and unfair and sad, it’s always there. It’s the only feeling left in me, the feeling that I don’t want to be here, but I don’t want to die. That is feeling suicide/feeling suicidal to me, that is the suicide within. I’d like it to go away.