To the Friend I Fear Is Tired of Giving Me Reassurance
Editor’s note: If you experience suicidal thoughts, the following post could be potentially triggering. You can contact the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741-741.
Dear friend who might be sick of me asking if you still like me as a person,
I want you to know, for every time you have to answer the same question that grates on your nerves, there were probably 10 other times when I wanted to ask it, but I didn’t. Maybe this time I asked because I couldn’t handle the pain and anxiety that made me want to leave this world behind, just so I don’t have to deal with this self-hating neurosis anymore.
It literally controls everything I do. It’s why I don’t sing out loud or dance in public, instead only in my house when the drapes are pulled together and the blinds rolled down. It’s why I’m afraid to say “hi” to people, because what if they don’t say hi back? Or tell somebody I like their shoes, because what if they ignore me? Or tell a mom, “Hey, your kid’s cute,” because what if she thinks I’m a pedophile? And knowing how ridiculous it is all seems doesn’t reduce the pain in my chest, the obsessive thoughts or the simmering panic attacks, and as much as I want to cry, I can’t.
Most forms of emotional release such as exercise, singing and dancing are too anxiety-inducing to do, because what I’m doing it “wrong?” Do I look silly, fat, ugly? “I bet my glasses make me look dumb.” It runs through my head every single day, and I hate it, and its pure-black hatred, not your mere possible annoyance of texting me, “No, I still care about you. I love you.” And it’s those words which bring me enough joy to fight the pure-black hate for at least that moment of free-falling panic.
Please keep typing those words.
If you need support right now, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255, the Trevor Project at 1-866-488-7386 or text “START” to 741-741.
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Thinkstock photo via KristinaJovanovic