In honor of National Suicidal Prevention Week I wanted to share my experience with suicidal thoughts. First I have a short free write and then I have a short poem.
I’m going to warn you that these posts aren’t as Chipper as my usual ones. This is to bring awareness and to let others know that they are not alone. I’d also like to mention that even the happiest looking person can be facing overwhelming hardships.
I remember the chime of the silver bells that hung from my wooden bedroom door. I remember how they sang a sweet melody each time I creaked open the door, and how every time I did, my parents would run out into the dimly light hallway with tight worried faces. I would reassure them that I was okay, but in reality I wasn’t okay. They knew I was safe for now, but I was far from okay.
My parents knew everything I knew. I was as open with them as I could possibly be, and it probably saved my life. I never knew how much they did for me until years later. I don’t remember them locking up my multiple medications at night, or how they hid the sharp silver knives. I don’t remember when or where my dad hid the black bb gun. I don’t remember the hushed conversations my parents had with each other, or the tears that my mother shed every night. I don’t remember the angry prayers that were sent up to God. And I don’t remember the moment when my father punched a hole into the floral wallpapered wall in his bedroom. I do remember however, the day my mom bought a worn antique painting for my fathers room, which I now know was to cover up the gaping fist sized hole.
What I remember most were my thoughts. A hurricane inside my mind. The thoughts whirling and banging against the inside of my skull. I remember the streaks of tears that fell down my cheeks each night. And as the stars twinkled in the sky, I couldn’t help but hear my never-ending thoughts that said four simple words. “I need to die”
Eventually my parents rushed me to Urgent Care one night when I told them the thoughts were too strong. I didn’t want to kill myself, but I felt like I had too. I was admitted into Four Winds Hospital a few days later at the age of 13 to receive some help, along with some medication changes.
This poem I used for a school assignment. It had to create an image and emotion.
Young girl of just thirteen,
dysfunctional thoughts slaughter.
The wind whips against her skin,
tearing, scratching, causing her to bleed,
Blood pools in her thoughts,
she can see it, she can see her.
What of her parents? How would they react?
Seeing their one and only dead on the floor.
She loved them too much to give into the thoughts,
the thoughts that she desperately didn’t want to obey,
Will freedom ever come? Will the wind ever stop?
I wish I could go back and tell her how it ends….Oh, how it ends.
Oh how it ends……honestly, the thoughts did end; it gets better; there is always a choice; even when it doesn’t feel like it.
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