“How is it having a suicidal friend?”

So I wrote a message to my friend (like really). I mentioned the election-results (my country just had an election); I mentioned the cricket (ugh!) she found in her bed; I mentioned how I hadn’t been able to sleep, and my throbbing headache; I mentioned how much I cared about her and how proud I was of her; and I guess somewhere in there I asked how it was having a suicidal friend …

I don’t ask this very often. Heck, I don’t think I’ve ever asked. I’m not usually that direct. But I couldn’t isolate any longer. I had to have some contact and I decided to try honesty again. I was too tired to fake it. So I just blurted out what was on my mind. And somehow that was in there. I remember something similar happening some weeks ago … people I had put off way too long to respond to, I answered finally, one late night, when I was incredibly tired and couldn’t sleep. I seized the chance I had, the opportunity that bid itself since I was feeling like I didn’t care. I didn’t care to meticulously pick out every word, to scrutinize the messages. I just wrote. And it worked out ok. I mean, I got answers … though I haven’t gotten around to replying again yet. Fuck me. (Must be said, I didn’t mention anything close to heart in these ones though.)

But yeah. And you know what she answered? …

How can I know pain, and knowingly add to others’? How can I break when falling apart means giving up, and giving up means dying, and dying means I’ll give my pain to those I love? There are no reasons.

“You’re the friend I dreamt of, that I didn’t think existed. You got a creativity you can use to create incredible things. You give so much love. You’re strong. You give me hope.”

But how can this be me, when I am only shattered pieces of a life? Hurt from here to ever.  Too weak to climb the hills. How can I give someone hope, when my hope died?


There are no reasons.


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