Keep Breathing

6. An Inner Look in Suicidal Mind

I've talked many times about how people can help themselves and help the others to overcome the dark times when things seem to be helpless, how to find that little light inside to start over, but some may be still asking themselves about how is it to be on the edge.
As I've said before, I'm not an expert and haven't formally studied the topic, but I've been in there and can remember perfectly how it is like to feel the lowest you can be, the worst you can picture yourself and the way things start to look like when there's no explicit help in your way.
Any light we see, while we're in that dead end, is weak, almost dead, and it takes a lot of effort to keep it in there, dancing between life and dead, sanity and madness. It takes all we have left, every last drop of might, and yes, it's a heavier weight for some than for others, that's why terrible things happen.
Our mind starts to play tricks: voices, images, different perceptions of reality. You crash down, inside out, slowly, painfully, and you know it most of the time, but the fear and the pain is so much it freezes you. I became a statue, literally, when it was my turn.
I didn't heard voices or anything. I knew where I was, who were around me, who were waiting for me, but it seemed like all those names and faces meant nothing all of a sudden, just as if they were all strangers to me.
My mind replayed all of those good memories, like when people say you're about to day, but there was no order, just random images that disappeared as soon as they appeared, with no logical sequence, no thread, no anything. They were just in there, playing as the final show.
Those four seconds are still in my mind, but as a dream. I can't exactly remember them, just generalities: the place I was in high school field, what I was doing before going down, the clothes I had, the way I felt, the things I thought, and that's it.
In that pretty moment, we feel as if all of our bones were becoming thinner with every second that passes, as thin and fragile as a spider web in a wild storm. Seems like every little breeze of air, our own storm, can make them nothing.
The same applies to our skin, as we start to feel a colder air around us. That's why we often sit down and surround our legs with our arms: we try to keep ourselves together, try to see if we can at least do that on our own.
Maybe it's a test for some, it can have a strange logic in their minds if I can do this, I can keep going. But for me, it was more as a silent cry for help: I screamed the loudest I could in my mind, calling for any friend to come, anyone I knew I could trust, and then one was in there.
I walked, almost ran, feeling my legs as if they were frozen and wanted them to keep warm, as with the rest of my body, my eyes felt like burning, just as if I were looking straight to the sun, trying to keep my tears inside until I reached her. Just one look was all it took my friend to see I needed her.
Speaking was the worst part: every word hurt, every phrase in every sentence. As I said, it's the deepest you can be, and it takes a lot more pain to get out of there; another reason to know why some decide to give up.
That friend, with who I still speak by phone, become my anchor. Only during that moment, she was all I cared about, all I needed and all I was looking for, and I know I cried as never before, I know that tears were running down my cheeks, but it felt like blood. As thick and heavy as blood.
You can think about this as the deepest hole you can ever imagine, and despite it could seem pointless, words are the only help we have down there, the only thing that makes sense in so much darkness.
To have someone listening to you, caring, holding your hand and crying with you, trying to make you feel better at any cost, starts to build a stair which steps are lined with rusty nails, and since you're in your weakest point, you don't have the strength to stand up straight, but crawl over most of the way up.
It's hard, it's a torture, but each step, somehow, makes you want to go for the next one, and the next, until you're in a rush. You feel the cuts, feel the wounds, feel it all, but the only thing in your mind is a voice telling: "Get the fuck out of here." Over and over and over.
Just as Marilyn Manson sings, "It's a long, hard road, out of hell." That's the best description I've ever heard about this process, and I'm a guy who has listened to a lot of music, especially during those days.
When someone tells me: "You don't have depression, you're just having a hard time," I think about how easy is that person's life that they cannot imagine the whole process, that maybe it's hard to understand that you can be your own enemy sometimes, that you can't trust your own mind. They have no idea.
The same goes for someone who says: "We're all depressed, some more than others and in different moments." Really? You think the whole world suffers from depression? More than 7 billion people on the globe feel they're not good enough, they're too tired to even breathe and that there's nothing worth living for in their lives? Please, just please...
The inner scars are nothing you can imagine, as you live with them forever, and even still I know that was about five years ago, I'm still leading with a challenging healing process. Some of them open with no signs, I only notice when it's too late, but I'm still alive, which means I can still fight.

Written by @AlanDD

We have launched our campaign magazine & made a seperate profile for it. Follow the magazine nosuicide_magazine 

Here is the link for the magazine https://www.wattpad.com/story/95048204-save-a-life-magazine-jan-issue