We Are the Normal Ones: Memoirs of a Fallen Human

Breathe

*inhales*

I get it.

I do.

When you're suicidal, why would you surround yourself with all things dealing with that? Why would you read articles on celebrities who had succeed in their attempts? Or watch movies about ones who tried to kill themselves? Or listen to music that talks about the desire to die?

Honestly, there's a few reasons.
Truthfully, it's not to get ideas on how to commit the act.
As some think...
Quite frankly, we already have the plan. We don't need to go looking for one. To tell you the truth, we have more than one plan. Usually, it's more than three.

It's the desperation to find someone, somebody that gets you.
To find someone who is so desperate to tear out their heart just to stop it from hurting from the pain only you inflicted upon it.
All of the movies and shows show sadness and heartache due to external forces. But my heartache wasn't reserved for boys or even the fact my mom left.
My heartache was my own.
It was a song I've heard of a million times being played in a language I only heard of once. I was mad at all the things I was hearing about what kind of person I was according to the voice in my head. But the voice stop to write something down. That way it'll stay forever. And when you go to read what they write, it's not what they say that scares you. It's that you recognized the handwriting to be your own. Looking in the mirror to find the person aiming the gun at you was you but you still couldn't recognize her face.

I watched a video of a guy breaking down on stage everyday because I found someone who's heart hurt just like mine. No one understood. No one even tried to understand. Nobody stopped to ask 'why'? 'Why do you feel this way?' 'Help me understand your breath.' Instead, it was an attack of what I should and shouldn't be doing. They just lectured me. Why did no one try to understand me?

But do you not know how nice it is to hear someone else cry in the same frequency as yours? Who's sobs, sniffs and screams were the same melody you've been playing in hopes someone could read the notes. It's so nice to see that at least one person knew. In his songs, in his voice, I knew... he just knew.

It was just so nice to see someone who cried like me. Who took the same painful breathes as me. Who was so torn by the fact that his source of life, his breath, his heartbeat, was causing him the same amount of pain as me. Who couldn't wash their face from all of the tears because they would form again anyway like me. Who's arms were weak but hands were still holding on...
like me...

It was more than "oh, I'm not alone". Really, it was more than he 'knows' but that he understood. Him understanding was so therapeutic to me that it lightened my load.

You have no idea, or maybe you do, but the act of understanding is so intimate and so strong to someone dealing with a mental illness.

All I was, was desperate for was someone to understand me. Who recognized me. Who saw me. Because I was engulfed in a sea of people who didn't recognize me because I didn't smile like I usually did. Who didn't see the person inside gasping for air that wasn't polluted by the disappointment and sorrow she choked on daily. They didn't see me. They saw my disorder.

I get your reasoning on why I should stay away from any content even remotely related to depression or suicide when my mind is dead set on those things. I do.

But the question is:

do you get it?

*exales*