They say love is blind. Well, my toxic relationship with suicidal thoughts was like being blindfolded, spun around, and then shoved into traffic. It wasn’t cute or romantic—it was chaotic, messy, and downright dangerous. Think of your most persistent ex—the one who drunk-texts you “u up?” at 2 a.m. even though you’ve clearly moved on. That’s what suicide felt like: an ever-present shadow, whispering sweet nothings about relief that were as seductive as they were terrifying.
It started innocently enough. Like a bad date, I didn’t realize I was getting into something harmful until I was in too deep. At first, it was just fleeting thoughts—passing notions on especially bad days. “Wouldn’t it be easier if you just… didn’t?” Suicide didn’t knock on my door with a bouquet of red flags. It crept in quietly, like a bad houseguest who promises they’re only staying for the weekend but ends up unpacking a suitcase and hogging the remote.
The whispers turned into a constant hum, and before I knew it, I was in a full-blown toxic relationship with my own mind. It wasn’t just the bad days; it was every day. It was the mornings when getting out of bed felt like trying to lift a piano. It was the nights spent staring at the ceiling, replaying every embarrassing thing I’d ever done like a Greatest Hits album of shame. Suicide was always there, chiming in at the worst moments, like, “Hey, if you’re tired of this, I’ve got a solution.”
Here’s the thing: suicidal thoughts aren’t logical. They don’t come with a PowerPoint presentation explaining why you should exit stage left. They hit you when you’re vulnerable, when you’re too tired or overwhelmed to think straight. They make promises they can’t keep—promises of peace, freedom, and an end to the pain. But the truth is, suicide doesn’t solve your problems; it just stops you from ever finding solutions.
I remember one particularly dark night. It was raining—because of course it was—and I was curled up on the bathroom floor. (Fun fact: the bathroom floor is where 90% of existential crises happen. The other 10%? In traffic.) Everything felt like too much. Work, relationships, life in general—it was all this giant, suffocating weight. And there it was, that voice in my head. “This could all be over. You don’t have to feel this way.”
I’d love to say I had some heroic epiphany in that moment, like in the movies where the protagonist pulls themselves together and vows to fight another day. But real life isn’t like that. What actually happened was more mundane: I called a friend. Through sobs and hiccups, I managed to say, “I’m not okay.” And you know what? That was enough. It wasn’t a grand gesture or a magical fix, but it was a start. It was the first step toward reclaiming my life.
The journey to healing wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t a montage set to upbeat music where I suddenly discovered yoga and green smoothies. It was messy and slow, full of setbacks and second-guessing. Therapy became my lifeline—not the movie version where you sit on a couch and drop life-changing revelations every week. My therapy was awkward and hard, filled with silences and ugly crying. But it worked. Slowly, I began to unravel the lies I’d been telling myself. I learned that it was okay to not be okay, and that asking for help wasn’t a weakness—it was a strength.
Over time, I started to see suicide for what it really was: a con artist. It had tricked me into believing that my life wasn’t worth living, that the pain would never end, and that I didn’t have options. But the truth is, there’s always another way. It might not be easy or obvious, but it’s there. And every time I chose to stay, to keep going, I was taking power back from the shadow that had tried to control me.
Even now, suicidal thoughts haven’t completely disappeared. They’re like that ex who still lurks on your social media, occasionally liking a post just to remind you they exist. But I’ve learned how to deal with them. I know they’re not the truth—they’re just thoughts. And thoughts, no matter how dark or persistent, don’t define me.
If you’re reading this and you’re in that dark place, I want you to know that you’re not alone. I know it feels like the walls are closing in, like there’s no escape. But I promise you, there is a way out. It’s not easy, and it’s not instant, but it’s there. Reach out to someone—a friend, a therapist, a hotline. Take it one moment at a time, one step at a time. And don’t let the lies of suicide steal your chance to experience the good that’s still waiting for you.
Life is messy and unpredictable, but it’s also beautiful and full of surprises. You deserve to see what comes next. Stick around—you might just find that the best chapters of your story are still ahead.
