And there was nothing poetic about wanting to kill myself and writing so many suicide notes in my head explaining how sorry I was for the things I did not become. There was nothing poetic and beautiful about crying myself to sleep every night for the past 5 years hoping someone would care enough to save me. No one saved me. No one was going to save me because there is nothing poetic about thinking you can’t be saved. There is nothing poetic about staring at a blank wall for an entire day or smiling and laughing the next and having people think “oh she’s fine.” There was nothing poetic and beautiful about trying to take my own life. There is nothing poetic and beautiful about my mother having a panic attack every time I have a bad day and lock my door. There is nothing poetic and beautiful about me not taking my pills because I don’t know who I am without this sadness. There is nothing poetic and beautiful about having depression and wishing you were dead. There was nothing poetic and beautiful about my depression or anyone else’s depression nor will there ever be anything beautiful and poetic about it.
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Disclaimer: The informational content on The Minds Journal have been created and reviewed by qualified mental health professionals. They are intended solely for educational and self-awareness purposes and should not be used as a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. If you are experiencing emotional distress or have concerns about your mental health, please seek help from a licensed mental health professional or healthcare provider.
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And there was nothing poetic about wanting to kill myself and writing so many suicide notes in my head explaining how sorry I was for the things I did not become. There was nothing poetic and beautiful about crying myself to sleep every night for the past 5 years hoping someone would care enough to save me. No one saved me. No one was going to save me because there is nothing poetic about thinking you can’t be saved. There is nothing poetic about staring at a blank wall for an entire day or smiling and laughing the next and having people think “oh she’s fine.” There was nothing poetic and beautiful about trying to take my own life. There is nothing poetic and beautiful about my mother having a panic attack every time I have a bad day and lock my door. There is nothing poetic and beautiful about me not taking my pills because I don’t know who I am without this sadness. There is nothing poetic and beautiful about having depression and wishing you were dead. There was nothing poetic and beautiful about my depression or anyone else’s depression nor will there ever be anything beautiful and poetic about it.
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