Help

I am the type of person who likes to do things on my own. There's a fierceness within me; stubborn, but determined. If I think about it now, I can feel it there inside of me hot like flames. It chants to me: I don't need help.

So why am I sitting on the floor, legs crossed and hands on my head, with my phone lying face up before me? Why am I contemplated on asking for help?

I look around me and I see a life that has lost my control. My room is neglected. Bills are piled on my desk untouched. Clothes remained unwashed for months. As for me, I haven't showered in days. It all screams to me of an unhappiness that I cannot find in myself to overcome.

How can you overcome something if you lack the strength to do so?

I've fought this darkness inside for fifteen years; diagnosed with chronic depression before I turned twenty. Each time I feel a twinge of hope, it comes back quiet as a whisper until it takes over completely. It attaches itself to me like a shadow at my back and I have to live my life struggling to pretend I'm okay.

If you can't overcome something, do you quit?

I sit on this floor and my thoughts are swimming with ideas. I want to quit. I want to give up my life and all that dwells within it. I am scared, but at the same time I am relieved. It's the relief that's more frightening. It's the fear that makes me contemplate.

Should I ask for help?

I don't want to bother anyone with my own suffering. It's as though I'm concerned that by sharing the darkness within me, it will rub off on them and they will feel as I do. The stubborn part of me is determined not to show weakness. The child in me is afraid of what they'll think of me.

I'm contemplating between asking for help or taking my own life, and I reason with myself. As I am suffering, the world around me is suffering, too. My neglected room and uncared for pets; it's all a mirror of myself. Will my absence cause more agony, too?

How do I ask for help?

With trembling hands, I lift my phone to my ear, tears already spilling onto my cheeks. The phone rings and my sister picks up. Her voice is happy and colorful, as though she's had a good day. I consider hanging up immediately, but I don't.

"What is it? Are you alright?" She asks me in concern.

I'm the type of person whose pride boasts of independence, but sometimes I have to tell myself there are things I cannot do alone. That there is bravery in every breath, there is hope in every heart beat, and there is no shame in asking for help.

"I," I struggle to say the words, "I need help."