The first time I admit that I was suicidal, was not the same as my first attempt. Early attempts were unceremonious in nature and involved a handful of pills with a prayer to remove the pain. I awoke a day (sometimes two) later and noted that it had not been enough and decided that I would need more the next time around.
When I spoke the words for the first time, it was not a cry for help but merely a statement to the agony and despair running through my body. The cops were responsive and sent me to the medical unit. The treatment of crayons and coloring pages seemed to sooth the beast.
I used those words again, a short while later, when I told my best friend that I needed help. She called the cops and though they seemed hesitant of my cry, they took me in. New pills seemed to do the trick this time around.
A therapist heard my next whimper and sent me for more help.
Losing faith in help and hope, I stopped crying.
The next time the cops found me, they told me how lucky I was. Blue lips and barely coherent. The touch of death still lingered on my body. Apparently, my roommate had found my letter.
My next attempt caused quite a stir. I wrote loving letters, drank my martini and ate what I thought would be my final piece of cheesecake. In the end, I managed to out run the cops for three days.
Coloring pages no longer soothed and pills were a running joke. Writing and art. That’s where I felt life. So I poured myself into those two things and grasped onto them for…well… life.
Over the last year, attempts became unceremonious and hospitalizations avoided using the right choice of words. I still felt no hope for help.
Though I continued to feel death creeping through my mind, over time my art began to bloom. It came alive in moments of desperation and showed me a way through. Hope began to grow for the first time in a year and a half.
The last time I admitted that I was suicidal. The cops were not called and the therapist assured me he would see me in two weeks again. Three different specialists did not hear my cry for help.
Hope withered and passed.
5 comments
Please try to get others to help. Some people just don’t realize the situation others are in. Help and hope are out there because life is beautiful and worth living.
Help isn’t just given. It’s actively sought and pursed after. It takes time and effort.
Very true unbecoming, very true, Brinana, if calling for help doesn’t work, try something else, keep trying different methods until one works, you could find a new hobby, live in a new place reborn, get new friends, or perhaps you could help others and slowly show them you are a bit upset but dont show ur full sadness or they may run away, good luck to you brother, may peace be upon you and your family
Hope you keep writing. I write ephemerally, which means I write poetry, then throw it away or delete it after it’s done. It’s a form of expression that’s uniquely me and helps me shape a moment into what i want it to be on paper. Then I can let go of it as I wish.
I hope you keep writing and creating art because it’s beautiful. I can say that without seeing it because all art is beautiful when you are genuine about it. And hope can always come back. It leaves, it returns. Despair comes, but then it will go again.
Don’t cry for help. Scream it at them. I don’t mean literally, unless that works. But unbecoming is right. you’ve got to seek help. It’s obvious that you want and need it. Art is a beautiful way of letting out your emotions when they get too much. But what about when they aren’t enough? Not enough to cry and not enough to create. Just enough to sit around feeling completely miserable. That’s no way to live. You want to live right, really live, so grab your chances. Make them. Tell them flat out what you’re feeling, don’t tip toe or hope someone will notice. Make it perfectly clear how bad it is for you. Make it clear how far down you are.
Make them help you.