broken

how do you save a life?

my deadname under my photograph. “she was such a resilient person,” they’ll say, but i am neither a girl nor am i resilient. i am not strong. i have never known a more weak, more cowardly, self-hating person. not seeing this, they’ll think, “what a waste.”

the depression came swiftly; all the lights snuffed out in one sweeping blow. no trigger. no reason at all. and it stayed, a noxious cloud that darkened my world and exhausted me until all i wanted to do was sleep and never wake.

“i wouldn’t be mad if you do decide to do this,” my friend said over the phone, “because i understand it’s really difficult for you.” she is the first person to ever understand to the point of accepting the imminent possibility that i will end my life. “let me go,” i used to beg, but no one would. “i believe all suicide is selfish,” someone i once trusted declared to me while i was suicidal. now, how would that help?

my friend went on to say, “but, you’d be doing a massive disservice to everyone’s life that you’ve touched. including mine.” if that is true, i am sorry. “it will pass,” my therapist promised. my friend said emphatically, “i know you can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel, but maybe the tunnel’s just curved.” that almost made me smile; i’ve never heard that take on the tunnel analogy before. “there is so much beauty in this world,” she said and i mourned for the days i believed that too. “i don’t think that’s for me,” i replied.

my mother is upset because i (again) didn’t tell her that i was depressed — i told my friend first and therapist second, who called my parents twice in one day and told them i was “in crisis”. “i’m such a useless mother,” she wept, and messaged me a selfie of herself crying.

what hope is there? i have become lost to the world. i have not been a good person. i have bad thoughts. i am an imposition to the people i care about. i feel broken. cracked and shattered, my pieces splayed on the floor. sharp and jagged edges gleam in warning. i cannot pick them up and press myself together, somewhat whole, on my own — and the repeated, increasingly frustrated “use your coping techniques” and “take a xanax” (which isn’t even a medication for depression!) are not helping in the slightest.

i’ve seen all of my friends over the past month. last night, i told my friend i love her, and my therapist that i cherish him, and thanked both of them for being there for me.

but, “believe me, it’ll pass,” they say. “it’ll pass. i promise.”