Why suicide isn't a matter of "strenght".

It's hard for me to picture someone who has never dealt with suicidal thoughts, since most of my friends have gone through a lot and many of them have diagnosed depression. I've also realized that people from my generation seems to have depression and anxiety in common, I see it everywhere. I've written before about people that I knew who committed suicide, and I have struggled with those ideas in the past, many times, actually.

Recently, I went to see a therapist because I became very afraid of not being able to handle it myself anymore, because I know I'm very strong, even when I feel like I'm not but this isn't about being strong or brave; being strong has nothing to do with not being able to go out and talk to the people I love for the last 3 days. Suicidal thoughts don't get only inside "weak" people's minds (whatever is your definition of "weak", since that's also very subjective), you see, when I'm suicidal I know I have reasons to keep living, I know my dad loves me as much as the rest of the family and friends I have; I know I could have a great life and there many things that I'd like to do before I die, but depression doesn't make sense and do you know why? because it's an illness. A mental illness doesn't need to be reasonable at all, if I were able to convince the chemicals in my brain of the things the logical part of me already knows, I wouldn't even need therapy, it probably wouldn't be considered an illness, but a dumb choice.

I think the part that pisses me off the most about this, is that there are people putting energy into criticizing these poor souls who couldn't help committing suicide like they are the filthiest beings in the world, instead of focusing on why so many people have depression and how to make it better, how to help friends, family, or even ourselves. Just because someone can handle depression and stay alive by focusing on the rational side, it doesn't mean that everyone else can do it that way. There are many types of depression and every single head works differently. For some of us, asking for help takes many years, while for others asking for help is the easiest part. Even with help, I'm pretty sure it's a hard, long journey in most of the cases.

How about we learn from this very sad situation and help each other? Let's have some mercy and empathy and if you can't, keep it to yourself, nobody needs to be put down like that.

23

It was December when I got to work one day and a friend told me about what happened to O. Of course, knowing someone I knew in person and was friends with at some point of my life died, was a big shock by itself. It was painful and sad but I could have never known the impact it would have over me and the decisions I would make.

It was finals' week and I was printing one of my final projects when another friend of mine sent me an article. It was about how O. died, it was about his suicide; now I was sure that it was suicide. I remember standing there telling to myself "not now" just to avoid making a scene in front the store's employees, so as soon as I was ready to go, I hurried inside the mall I needed to go through in order to  get to the bus stop. The entire mall was covered in Christmas. I saw happy families, giant gifts everywhere and children taking pictures with Santa Claus, all while listening to happy songs about how good it is to be together during the holidays... but what about O.'s family? what about O.?

O. wouldn't have a merry Christmas ever again and I was pretty sure his mom and his brothers wouldn't have it that year (if they ever could have one someday). The entire world seemed to melt in front of my eyes, it was like watching a movie screen, it was all made of cardboard. Love, happiness, friendship, it all seemed fake, all of that would never be enough, no cure would ever exist. And I wondered "Is this what O. was feeling? Is this why he left? Can I see what he saw and made him want to go away?". The mall seemed to never end for a moment; it probably took me around 5 minutes to walk across it with cold sweat on my back and my legs shaking but I felt the world mocking me for hours. The moment I got out of there, I tried to keep walking under the dark of the night but how could I? how could I keep breathing in a world made of cardboard? how could I ever keep going? and I felt tears burning my face while choking, still trying to walk through the empty parking lot until I fell down and sobbed without anyone around me. I knew life would never be the same, that even if the rest of the world seemed to be working perfectly with a young man hanging himself somewhere, I could never have a cardboard life. Those hot burning tears, kept rolling down my face the entire way home, also weeks before, during nights when I finally got home and even now, months before whenever I remember that night.

It's July but that winter never ended for me. I keep trying to believe in love and friendship, and find beauty all around me, sometimes even getting excited over small things, but I can't help wondering sometimes... will it ever be enough again?

I can't forget about that article, which was mistaken about his age, he wasn't 22; actually, he was 23 when he passed away. I'll be 23 in three months.