A secret

Nobody has to know.

That’s what I always tell myself whenever suicidal thoughts come around. See, incarceration, social vigilance, and psychiatric violence aren’t my thing. I haven’t, to date, met anyone who appreciates getting tased, shot, beaten, and their freedom taken away from them after mustering the courage to speak out anyway. It certainly isn’t a me thing.

Mouth shut. I need to avoid danger, and there’s no need to say why. There’s no safety in coercion, in raw, unfiltered violence. Losing one’s freedom is no fun. It, instead, can be quite a traumatizing experience. Never again.

But there’s more to it. Say your family/friends/boss/whatever don’t ring the police on you. Say institutionalization is out of the cards. Shunning isn’t. Rejection, exclusion, and shaming aren’t. Stigma doesn’t come off with ease. You’ll forever be known as a freak. A safety hazard. A potential criminal. A time bomb. And if you aren’t ostracized, you’ll be hidden from the public, like a filthy secret.

Choosing to remain silent is not an easy decision. I’m scared. I fear these feelings will be too much to handle. They can get worse, I know. I’ve been here before. I’m hurting a lot, so much it is physically painful. It’s hard to describe. Yet, knowing what my choices are after long consideration, I would rather keep it in – which comes with a lot of suffering – than let anyone know depression is back in town.

A month after the June solstice, I can say with certainty that winter has come soon. Several months early, actually. I thought the war was over. I was wrong, and I should’ve known. The abuse, the cruelty, the torture never went away. My long-time unwanted companion is back.

It’s fucking back.