UNSPOKEN REALITIES

THE WEIGHT OF STILL BEING HERE

September, suicide prevention month.

Always the same.

The words seem to fall like hollow echoes in every conversation: "If only I had known...", "Why didn’t you mention it sooner?", "You could have said something." And while everyone else’s lips move, uttering those empty phrases, all I can do is bite my tongue. Because the truth is, I did. I did say it. I mentioned it in a thousand ways, in small details, in every held breath when the day became unbearable. But no one really listens, do they? Not when you’re alive. Not when you can still pretend everything is fine with an empty smile.

"They’re just doing it for attention."

That’s what I always hear. It’s what gets thrown in my face every time the words try to escape my lips. Judgment seeps into the glances, into the whispers, as if pain could be packaged, sectioned off into something as simple as "seeking attention." If only they understood that I don’t want attention, I want relief. I want the weight I carry to stop crushing me, to stop pulling me down into an abyss from which there is no escape. I don’t want to be seen, I want the pain to stop existing, but that... that they can’t understand.

"You have to be strong."

That phrase repeats like a mantra. As if every time someone says it, it gives me some kind of hidden energy, as if the words had the power to restore the hope I lost so long ago. But being strong isn’t always enough. Being strong is exhausting. Being strong means you have to keep fighting, even when your strength is gone, even when every sunrise feels more like a sentence than an opportunity.

"If only we had known sooner..."

Ah, but when someone leaves, when they’re no longer here to hear those hollow words, the discourse changes. It becomes a collective lament, a cry over the absence. And they wonder: "Why didn’t we see it? Why didn’t we notice?" It’s ironic because what they didn’t notice was right in front of them the entire time. It was there, in every broken smile, in every quick response of "I’m fine" when it was clear that I wasn’t. But again, no one wants to see the pain until it’s too late. Until there’s no one left to save.

Being a survivor is not a relief.

Many think that by surviving, you’re safe. That somehow, the worst is over. But no one talks to you about the guilt that creeps into every day that follows. No one talks about the emptiness that remains after attempting to say goodbye. No one tells you that just breathing can be the heaviest thing you’ll ever do. Being a survivor is not the happy ending everyone thinks it is; it’s a constant reminder that, although you made it through that moment, the darkness doesn’t disappear overnight. And the scars, both physical and emotional, are still there, whether visible or not.

"I don’t understand."

No, they don’t understand. And that’s okay, I don’t expect them to. It’s complicated. It’s easier for them to label, to simplify, to try to fit my pain into a neat box they can understand. But pain isn’t simple. It’s not something you can wrap up and put away. And it doesn’t always have a solution. Sometimes, the only way out you see is the end, but that scares those who have never experienced it. They don’t like to think about it. But I live with that thought every day.

And yet, I’m still here.

Sometimes, I wonder why. Why am I still here if everything seems so empty? Why do I keep fighting when no one really listens, when every word I say seems to get lost in the air before it reaches the ears of those around me? Maybe because, even though they don’t want to admit it, I’m not alone in this. There are others, like me, who are also struggling. And even though we never say anything to each other, even though our eyes rarely meet, there’s a silent understanding in the shared pain.

Today, I don’t have answers. I don’t have solutions. But I do have something else: I have the awareness that my pain is real, even if others don’t see it. And I know that I’m not weak for feeling it. I’m not lesser for wanting someone, someday, to sit down and just listen without trying to fix everything.

The weight of still being here is heavy, but for now, I carry it with me.