The demons are real.
It is hard to post about certain things because they are so real that you really don’t want people to know just how real they are. Especially when the people who would worry are probably going to read what you write. It’s like giving your mom your journal to read. I could, of course, hide this from anyone who it might hurt, but then they would never know. That’s the problem with mental illness, you don’t want the people who should know to ever know, but the silence solves nothing.
So, here’s the truth: I want to die. I know you don’t see a reason for it. Neither do I. I know I am doing good things. I know I am loved. I know I am needed. I even know I have worth. But suicide calls me like a familiar friend. It greets me with open arms and says, “come find peace”.
I try to stay away. I pray. I search for goodness. I try to stay healthy, to think good thoughts. I listen to uplifting music. I have faith and hope and love. I do good things.
But I scream silently. I struggle with the noise inside of me. I gasp for breath past suicide’s alluring arms. Death… It seems so easy… So near… Just a respite away. I long for it like a parched throat longs for water, yet I know I cannot drink.
The demons are real. I won’t do it… I can’t do it… But the demons are real… Please understand, the demons are real…