Surviving Suicide: Finding Light in the Darkness

Let’s start with something a little uncomfortable: suicide. It’s not a word we like to linger on. It feels heavy, doesn’t it? Like a weight that’s always there, lurking in the corners of conversations but rarely invited to the table. Well, let’s invite it right now. Let’s pull it up a chair and pour it a cup of tea, because the only way out of the darkness is to start turning on some lights.

I’m not here to lecture. I’m here to talk, to reflect, and maybe, just maybe, to help you see things differently. Think of this as a story, a meandering, metaphor laden tale about finding a way to keep going when you don’t feel like it. It’s not polished or perfect, but neither is life. And that’s okay my friend.

The Ocean Inside

Imagine this: your mind is an ocean. Most days, it’s manageable, a little choppy, maybe, but nothing you can’t navigate with a sturdy boat and a decent map. But then there are days when the waves are relentless, when the sky turns black, the stars don’t shine like they used to, and you’re clinging to driftwood, wondering if it’s even worth trying to stay afloat. That’s what suicidal thoughts feel like. They’re not logical, and they’re not kind. They’re a storm that convinces you the shore doesn’t exist.

I know this because I’ve been there. I’ve stood in the heart of that storm and felt the darkness closing in. I’ve planned my escape. Once, it was pills one by one, my mind calmly whispering that this was the way out. I swallowed them. It wasn’t dramatic; there were no tears, no last minute doubts just a quiet, overwhelming sense of relief.

But the world didn’t let me go. My girlfriend found me, after texting her goodbyes, panicked, and called an ambulance. I woke up in a hospital bed, alive but hollow, staring at the ceiling and wondering why I was still here. There was no grand revelation, no instant desire to fight for my life. Just a small, stubborn flicker of something that said, Not yet.

There were other times, too. Times when I stood on the edge of a train platform, the crushing weight of despair pressing down so hard it felt like stepping forward might be the only relief. And then, there was the times I tried to drown myself at 5am fully clothed in the sea, slipping under water and hoping it would silence everything (I can’t swim btw). Each time, though, I surfaced. Only because the will to fight flickered back, a tiny, fragile ember that refused to go out.

And let’s not forget the cuts. Self harm became its own strange language when I was younger, my body a canvas of despair. I told myself it was control, a way to feel something sharp and tangible instead of the endless, numbing fog. But it wasn’t control. It was desperation. And yet, even in that desperation, I survived. I stitched myself back together, even when it felt pointless.

Maybe that’s the lesson: sometimes, survival isn’t about wanting to live. It’s about deciding not to die. It’s about choosing to see what happens next, even if you’re convinced it’ll be nothing.

The Lighthouse

During my own storm, I found myself searching for a lighthouse, something, anything, to guide me to safety. Sometimes it was a person: my girlfriend, steadfast and kind, even when I was at my worst. Other times it was a small act of defiance against the darkness, getting out of bed, eating a meal, writing a gratitude list. Tiny things, really, but they were my beacons. And they mattered.

If you’re in the storm right now, find your lighthouse. It doesn’t have to be grand or profound. Maybe it’s your cat, waiting to be fed. Maybe it’s a text from a friend, or a song that makes you feel a little less alone. Whatever it is, hold onto it. Let it guide you, even if it’s just one small step at a time.

The Myth of Permanence

One of the biggest lies depression tells is that it’s forever. It whispers that nothing will ever ever get better, that this is your life now, and it’s never going to change. But that’s just it: it’s a lie. Pain is not permanent. It ebbs and flows, just like the tide. And while it might not vanish completely, it will lessen. It will become manageable. You will adapt and grow stronger, even if you don’t feel like you can right now.

I’m living proof of this. After three overdoses, countless nights staring at the ceiling, and more scars than I can count, I thought I’d hit rock bottom. But rock bottom isn’t a permanent residence. Slowly, I started climbing out. Therapy, support groups, even just the act of talking, all of it helped me see that the darkness wasn’t infinite. It’s still there sometimes, lurking like a shadow, but it doesn’t own me anymore.

A Letter to Anyone Struggling

To you, sitting in the dark, feeling like the world has swallowed you whole: I see you. I know how hard it is to keep breathing when every breath feels like a battle. I know how the thoughts in your head can twist and coil like vines, choking out any hope you might have left. But please, hear me when I say this: you are not the sum of your worst thoughts. You are more than the storm.

I know it feels permanent, like this darkness is all there is. But I promise you, it’s not. It’s a moment, a long, excruciating moment, yes, but still just a moment in the grand, messy timeline of your life. You don’t have to solve everything today. You don’t have to be okay right now. All you have to do is stay. Just stay.

Reach out, even if it feels impossible. Send the text. Make the call. Sit in someone’s presence and let their light warm you, even if you can’t feel it yet. Find something small to hold onto, a memory, a song, a sliver of hope that someday, somehow, things will be different.

The Tattooed Armor

For me, tattoos have become a kind of armor. Each one tells a story, not of the pain I’ve endured, but of the strength I’ve found. They’re a reminder that I’ve been through storms before and survived. They’re proof that even in the darkest moments, I’ve chosen to create something permanent, something beautiful.

Maybe you don’t have tattoos, and that’s okay. Your armor can be anything, a hobby, a memory, a dream you’re not ready to give up on. Find it, and wear it proudly. Let it remind you of who you are and what you’ve survived.

The Quiet Rebellion

Recovery isn’t loud. It’s not a dramatic montage set to an inspirational soundtrack. It’s quiet. It’s brushing your teeth when you’d rather stay in bed. It’s answering a text, even when you’re convinced no one cares. It’s taking your meds, going to therapy, or just breathing through another minute. Recovery is a rebellion against the darkness, and every small act of defiance matters.

You don’t have to climb mountains or change the world to prove your worth. Just keep going. Keep fighting, in whatever way you can. Your quiet rebellion is enough.

A Pause

Life is, at its core, absurd. We are tiny, fragile beings on a spinning rock in an infinite universe, trying to make sense of chaos. And yet, within that absurdity, there is beauty. There is love and laughter and connection. There is art and music and the feeling of sunlight on your skin. The world doesn’t make sense, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth exploring.

Suicide tells us that the story is over, but it’s not. It’s just a chapter, a dark one, sure, but not the end. And who knows what’s waiting in the next chapter? Maybe it’s something breathtaking. Maybe it’s something quiet but good. You’ll never know if you don’t stay to find out.

A letter to you

To the child inside you, the one who just wanted to be loved, to feel safe, to know they were enough, I see you, too. I know the world has hurt you. I know it’s left scars you’re still carrying. But that child inside you is still here, and they’re still worthy of kindness and care.

Imagine holding that child’s hand. What would you tell them if you could? Would you tell them they’re unworthy? That the storm is their fault? No. You’d tell them they’re strong, even if they don’t feel it. You’d tell them they’re loved, even if they can’t see it. You’d tell them to keep going, to hold on, because better days are coming. And they are.

Speak to yourself with that same kindness. Wrap your inner child in warmth and love. Let them know it’s okay to hurt, but it’s also okay to hope. You don’t have to have all the answers. You just have to keep moving forward, even if it’s one small step at a time.

The Closing Thought

Life is messy, complicated, and often unfair. But it’s also full of small joys—a good cup of coffee, a sunrise, a laugh that takes you by surprise. Hold onto those moments. Collect them like seashells, and let them remind you why you’re still here.

The storm will pass. The shore is real. And you’re not alone in this. I’m here with you, in spirit, holding your hand through every wave. So keep swimming, keep searching, and never stop believing that you’re worth saving. Because you are. And always will be.

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