I’m suicidal.
Guys, I don’t get to say this too often without it being a hypothetical, BUT... I’m suicidal.
Did you hear me in the back? Did they hear me outside? Do you want me to say it louder?
I’M SUICIDAL!
Again? Do you want me to say it again?
I’m just messing with you guys! I know you don’t want me to say it.
I’m not an idiot. I can see you cringe and squirm in your seat. Don’t worry. I got you guys. I won’t say it too much.
I’ll prove it to you.
Let’s calm down for a second here. Take a deep breath. Get comfortable. This is not a public service announcement. This isn’t some after school special. I’m not a preacher nor do I ever plan to preach to you.
But I’m suicidal.
No one likes to hear it… So just give me a chance to prove it.
I’m already proving it in a way. Because as a suicidal person, I learned that I’m not allowed to talk about it. As a suicidal person, it’s like saying a ***** word.
Not a ***** word like **** or *****. ****. ******.
But it makes people feel *****.
When suicide is mentioned, I can see people rub their arms. They scratch the back of their neck. They fidget in their seat like I have covered them in ****.
So I’m sorry. But for a moment. I want you all to feel *****.
To see my truth, I not only need to splash my dirt onto you. I have to pull you deep down into the dirt with me. I need you to feel this way for the rest of the day.
Even when you go home and you hug your children, you hold your loved ones, and you’ve washed yourself in the lies that this could never happen to someone you care about
It’s going to stick behind your ears. You’ll feel it between your fingers. This smell will linger on your clothes. For a long time.
Just for a moment, you’re going to taste ****.
I’m sorry about that.
Do you guys want to hear a joke?
What’s the difference between being hungry and being *****?... it’s where you put the cucumber!
Have you heard that one?
Fine. But how about...
What’s the difference between a ****** and a drug dealer?... A ****** can wash and resell her crack.
I love telling that one. It kills almost every time.
No? Still not laughing?
How about…
Mickey Mouse walks into a divorce lawyers office. The lawyer says “You want to divorce your wife because she’s crazy?” and Mickey says “No! She’s ******* goofy.”
Ha! I knew I’d get some smiles. That one always works.
Does anyone feel better yet? Even just a little cleaner?
Because I don’t.
I carry jokes like a first aid kit and I bandage my wounds in satire.
When you see me drown, let me throw a punch line like a safety net. At least we both don’t have to die
Go home. Learn my jokes. Spray them like air freshener.
Pretend to be ok.
Do you think suicide is serious?
We all know it’s “serious” but no one ever explains why it’s serious.
Do you ever think about that?
Like, really think about it?
I was thirteen years old when I first told someone I was suicide and they treated it like I had brought a gun to school.
Like I had killed my dog with my bare hands.
Like I pulled my shirt up and sliced down my stomach just to show them my insides.
In a way I did. I did show them my insides. That was the first time I showed them all of me. But instead of stitching me up, they put a bandaid on it.
That’s what it is! It’s like I keep bleeding out and they keep putting bandaids on me. And when they run out, they’re like “****… You should feel better by now.”
They’re telling me “Why do I keep opening old wounds?” even though this pain hasn’t even had time to scab yet.
The last time I told my mother I was suicidal, I couldn’t say it in those words. We went on a walk, on new year's day.
It was the first walk we had taken together since I was a child. She was mad at me about something but I figured “It’s New Year. It’s ******* New Years, you know? It’s time to say it. It’s time to deal with it. I’m an adult. I can do it.”
But I didn’t put it in those words. I couldn’t just say “I’m Suicidal.” So I said “I don’t think I’m going to survive for much longer.”
And she rolled her eyes.
As a writer, it’s my job to find words. To make them so eloquent and so beautiful that they stick with you for the rest of your life. My words are supposed to stick.
But I can’t find words for such a pain…
You see, looking back on that, it was my fault.
As a suicidal person, I made the mistake of thinking just because she’s my mother, it mean she can’t smell the ***** word of suicide.
I live in a world of referrals.
If my parents can’t handle it, they will send me to my siblings.
If my siblings can’t handle it, they will send me to my friends,
From friends, I go to doctors, and then other doctors. And then specialists.
From specialists, I go to hospitals.
And then, ironically, I’ll go to special hospitals.
Mental facilities have become as arbitrary as wishing wells.
And I’ve emptied my pockets! I’ve emptied my wallets. But if I empty my heart I think they’re going to find me at the bottom of it.
When I’m sick and tired of all the referrals, they have the audacity to tell me that I have given up.
I gave up.
I stopped fighting.
But I am here to tell you that I am suicidal.
It is a *****, ***** word.
I’m also a lot of other things. I’m so many things.
I’m a daughter. And they take my beauty and they call it their reflections.
I’m a sister. But they took my loyalty, and they called it respect.
I’m a friend. They took my humor and they called it ecentric.
I’m a writer. So I took my pain and I made it into poetry.
But I am suicidal.
I am suicidal.
Don’t take my strength and call me a survivor.
Please.
Don’t let yourselves forget what **** smells like.
