LastLoveLetter
Persephone
- Mar 28, 2021
- 657
People say that suicidal people do not ask for help. There are slogans such as "it's okay not to be okay", "there is light at the end of the tunnel" and "you are never alone," as if we are the barrier to our own survival. As if help is always right there, readily available and all we need to do is ask.
I can honestly say that in my situation and with many others I have met who are (or were) suicidal, this is not the case. Every time I extended my hand to the services we are constantly told will help us, no-one reached back. Instead, I was pushed down further, knocked onto my knees. There was no light at the end of the tunnel for me, only perpetual fumbling in the darkness, while those who were supposed to help kept the flashlight out of reach.
More recently, my local mental health team even advised me to "call a helpline" if I feel desperate for support, because they are unwilling to provide any help or treatment whatsoever. Simply for asking for help, for saying that previous temporary support has not been enough to help in any meaningful way, I've been branded a lost cause and treated like a pariah. They said "we are closing your case and you can call helplines" as if my life means nothing, as if I'm just shit stuck under their shoe that they can't scrub off quickly enough.
There comes a point where we stop trying. It could be after the thousandth platitude, after the hundredth time we are labelled "attention-seeking", after the fiftieth promised phone call from the local mental health team that never transpires, or the twentieth time we are told that if we truly wanted to die, we would have "just done it by now." It could be after we confide in the professionals we are supposed to trust, only to hear deafening silence in return.
There comes a point where we stop trying. And ironically, it is the moment we do - the moment we end our misery - that people have the hypocrisy to say "I wish they reached out."
I am writing this to say that I did reach out. Repeatedly. Until eventually, I gave up and resigned myself to the fact that my life is over and that there isn't a single person who truly cares whether I live or die. I did not sit suffering in silence and then quietly kill myself. I asked for help over and over. I was vocal about my struggles and about my urgent need for help to cope. Those pleas fell on deaf ears.
I can honestly say that in my situation and with many others I have met who are (or were) suicidal, this is not the case. Every time I extended my hand to the services we are constantly told will help us, no-one reached back. Instead, I was pushed down further, knocked onto my knees. There was no light at the end of the tunnel for me, only perpetual fumbling in the darkness, while those who were supposed to help kept the flashlight out of reach.
More recently, my local mental health team even advised me to "call a helpline" if I feel desperate for support, because they are unwilling to provide any help or treatment whatsoever. Simply for asking for help, for saying that previous temporary support has not been enough to help in any meaningful way, I've been branded a lost cause and treated like a pariah. They said "we are closing your case and you can call helplines" as if my life means nothing, as if I'm just shit stuck under their shoe that they can't scrub off quickly enough.
There comes a point where we stop trying. It could be after the thousandth platitude, after the hundredth time we are labelled "attention-seeking", after the fiftieth promised phone call from the local mental health team that never transpires, or the twentieth time we are told that if we truly wanted to die, we would have "just done it by now." It could be after we confide in the professionals we are supposed to trust, only to hear deafening silence in return.
There comes a point where we stop trying. And ironically, it is the moment we do - the moment we end our misery - that people have the hypocrisy to say "I wish they reached out."
I am writing this to say that I did reach out. Repeatedly. Until eventually, I gave up and resigned myself to the fact that my life is over and that there isn't a single person who truly cares whether I live or die. I did not sit suffering in silence and then quietly kill myself. I asked for help over and over. I was vocal about my struggles and about my urgent need for help to cope. Those pleas fell on deaf ears.