Fashion Magazine

We Don't Talk About This

By A Mused Blog @Amusedblog
We Don't Talk About This
Seated on the edge of my bed with eyes closed, the low but steady sound of white noise came barreling in like a steam engine into my mind. I opened my eyes. I was observing the light - watching it shift and bounce between leaf and breeze, curtain and shadow, as it reflected off of my dresser. Studying the scene before me, I was imagining the subsequent stillness of this space without me in it.
I imagined my room and home, as a museum of my life. How the afternoon sun would shine through the blinds casting rays, and how the dust particles would slowly drift and sparkle within them. I contemplated the amount of time that would, or could pass before any of my museum artifacts were disturbed and misplaced. I imagined my mother, and perhaps my sister sitting on my bed, where I sat now, observing the task before them. I felt sorry for it.
I stood up and put on my jeans. I grabbed three items from on top of my dresser: my silver heart necklace from Mexico, my rose gold “avec tout mon coeur” Paris necklace, and my silver and amber pendant. I carefully placed each piece in my pocket. I held a knot of driftwood shaped like a heart, in my hand. I wanted these to be with me. Perhaps later, they would go through my pockets, and find them. They would ask about their significance, and maybe from those items, a story could be woven of who I was, and what I held dear. Not from the items themselves - but the sentiments behind them. These would be my unwritten letter.
Turning the corner, I made my way to the train tracks. I left the door unlocked, and my phone inside.  Arriving at the crossing, I waited. There is a sign posted at the track that says “each mind matters”. It is in both English and Spanish. There is a number that one can text message for help. It was a warm evening, but already early signs of fall - brown crispy leaves, were swirling at my feet. A man in a black hoodie walked by. I waited. Eventually I realized: it was the weekend. The last train had already passed. The wind pushed the tears sideways against my cheek.
I did not place myself before a moving train that day. Around midnight that evening I called an old ex; would he meet me at Denny’s? Take me to Denny’s? I was sobbing and I really wanted, no, needed a milkshake. I sensed his hesitation through the phone: “I’ll pay” I negotiated. At 2:34am we watched the moonrise over an empty Coddingtown parking lot. When I hugged him goodbye, I gripped him with everything I had. I was holding on for life, in so many ways. I wanted so badly to beg someone to help me stay. To hold me, and not say a thing. I am slipping, and that evening I nearly lost the battle.
We don’t talk about this. I do not talk about this. When my therapist asks me what my updates are, I gloss over the weekend. I do not talk about this. When my ex calls the following day to check up on me, he asks about the hug. “Something felt...different.” he says. I change the subject.
I scared myself that day. I had always believed that plans to end one’s life were more methodical, more thought out. But we don’t talk about this, so how would I know? We talk about our anxieties, and the desire to be alone, and joke about canceling plans, but we don’t talk about the impulse to die.
I will eventually speak to my therapist about that day. I can tell you, dear reader, because I cannot see your face. I can turn off the notifications, and not be in the same room. I won’t hear the uncomfortable shift of your body in the chair, or the sudden stiffness of surprise, or the hesitant breath held in anticipation of what to say. I am familiar with carefully chosen words, and often, I admire them as elegance under pressure. But I do not wish to experience them - not now. But I do know that eventually, we will talk about this.
If you, or someone you know is struggling with depression or suicide, please don't wait. Reach out to someone who can help. A great place to start is is the National Suicide Hotline: 1-800-273-8255.   

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