February 4, 2016

To My Suicidal Self, What I Know Now.

Flickr/Hartwig HKD

Dear Me, all those years ago,

I know you hurt; I know you are in pain.

I know you are burning with anger, grief and sadness. I think of the nights when anxiety saturated your broken heart and seemingly crushed it beyond repair.

Sleep never came, and you prayed that on the rare occasions Neverland took you away you could stay forever.

I remember as you wept mountains. Then as the tears dried, became a shell consumed by hopelessness. A complete abyss enveloped in blackness. Days passed as the living ghost drifted through life, watching her world crumble as fate destroyed it all.

Helpless, alone, misplaced in a delusional life; the role played completely, perfectly, narcissism always fooling the truth.

Then, the final goodbye—broken walls and furniture the perfect analogy for a shattered life.

In a torrent of despair, that little desire, that kick that drives the human spirit, was swept away. Dreams were smoked out by resentment, and a poisonous fury seeped out of your veins, draining every last drop of verve.

The pain was intense. Feelings of utter worthlessness reigned until there was nothing left to give.

Noise of failure and hurt blasted loudly into the void, consuming the prospect of any future thoughts.

All the things you had overcome in your life, the things you survived, this was the act that wanted to knock you down. And it was winning the battle spectacularly.


There is something you don’t know—something you can’t possibly imagine—holding on for you to stay.

Another world is watching from far, far away. It is deep, it is beating and it is powerful.

It sees why you are here. You are on the wrong path, walking a mistaken road, with flawed footsteps. This life is not yours.

The way you are meant to be on is waiting, building, growing every day.

In this darkness, in the bottomless pit, something is trying to connect. You can’t yet hear it screaming, “This way, this way!”

Your story, like every story, can start again, with a new beginning. A middle and an ending are waiting to be written. The words are your creation.

There are more loves to be loved, more stories to be made and, most importantly, more lives to be created.

These worlds are waiting to be traveled.

When you are at a junction, you need to be found.

Back at the beginning, it is there. Return to dreams, recover inspiration, define and recognize your value. Uncover your essence and authenticity. Find what is closer than breathing. What you have always known.

Those little things, the core, will connect you with the right direction. It is true and it will feel different, like home, like a familiar sunrise. It was always there in the background, waiting for its time to shine.

As you begin to rise, things around you will begin to change. Others will walk with you. Beside you, they will guide and steer, carrying you through the darkest and emptiest places, over mountains and valleys, in floods and in storms.

They will see your worth and fight any army for it.

One day, a little light will start to flicker and burn. Colors will slowly, slowly start to return. The blackness will begin to descend, retreat and fade. You will laugh again. Grow again. And you will fall into a life that was meant to be.

The person you are destined to be is waiting.

There is another fate. There is another calling.

The darkness is a sign you are on the road to healing; let it play its role. Grab it with two hands and love it for what it will provide. For out of the dark will come the greatest learning and the greatest light.

Find your value, your worth; find your offering to the rest of the world. And when you do, hold it close, scream it loud, make it count.

It is out there, wanting to be opened.


Relephant Read:

9 Lessons from My Suicide Attempt.


Author: Miriam LeRule

Editor: Toby Israel

Image: Hartwig HKD/Flickr


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