The Life After

The Day After

Dear Future Self,

I'm writing this only a few hours after my failed attempt to you. Maybe, just maybe, writing this to you means that I'll make it there. At least some part of me believes there will be someone reading this someday. We almost attempted again, but for the first time of screaming into the abyss, it wasn't just our echo screaming back. Someone has answered our calls, and he understands. He might not fully grasp the weight of his understanding, or how much it means for him to understand, but he does it nonetheless. He looked at our burden backs and said "I see you." He didn't imply that he wanted to save us, or that we needed fixing, but merely that he sees the weight we're carrying and he knows it bears a burden on more than just our daily mood. He recognizes that it causes anger, frustration, pent up energy, sadness, and an ache on our shoulders that won't go away. It's almost impossible to not know what you need until you stumble across it in the dark; yet here we are. He is the one who held us after we took our last benadryl, he is the one who caressed our cheek while we cried in fear of the night to come, and he laid with us all night knowing it could get him into trouble but knowing more that he had to be there. He didn't save us, but for the first time, we were given someone who sat down to listen when he couldn't pull us to our feet. Others have attempted, but he has mastered the art of not fixing what is broken, but providing the tools and support to fix it ourselves. They say when you find "the one" that the puzzle pieces fall together. Somehow, our life is falling apart, yet falling together all at once. 
If we had succeeded our attempt last night, we never would have known that this type of being heard is out there. I've never had someone look me in the eyes and say "I know, it's a lot, it's heavy, it's heavier than anyone should have to carry. You don't have to feel guilty for admitting that, you have dealt with more than anyone I know. I know how badly you want to give up, but you amaze me for continuing. You have so much everyday, please don't ever feel bad for not knowing what to do with that. You don't have to know what to do." It felt so genuine, like anyone who had tried just couldn't find the proper words or the proper eyes to bore into us or the proper hands to grab ours with, but he just knew exactly what to do. 
I would hate to make our suicide story out into a love story, because it isn't. It wasn't beautiful, it wasn't pretty, it was ugly and painful. It made us miserable, groggy, pained, and left us confused for the hours following the effects wearing off. Still, as I write, there isn't a part of me that feels normal yet. Closing my eyes last night genuinely felt like it could've been the last time, and at that point, I had accepted it. There was nothing beautiful about trying to die, but there was something so perfect in failing and being heard that it almost washes out the disgusting filth of attempting in the first place. 
When you read this again, whether it be tomorrow, or in a month, or in a year, or even years down the road, I hope you never forget the way it feels to be heard and understood, and I hope you feel it again. I hope we feel it again. I hope I feel it again. 
I just can't get over how amazing it was to not have someone reeling in their head to grasp our emotions, but to simply know what our emotions were. Nobody ever knew what to say, or what to do, they were at a loss, I was at a loss too. They could listen, they could hear, but they couldn't understand. So this, this is what it feels like. It feels like home, like a place I've walked into and knew I belonged in. Like the shit I carried to the door, the things I faced on the road leading up to the door, it didn't matter because this was home. It was warm, it was inspiring, it was everything I could've asked for. He knew our yellow from our gray, he saw the ugly, the good, and the bad, and he accepted it all. Truly accepted it all with open arms. It wasn't like others who said it then shied away from the demons that followed us, it was one who hugged our demons as well, sat us all down, and poured us all a warm cup of cocoa to shake the storms we trekked through. 
I would say I hope we don't scare him away, I would say I hope we don't make him hate us, but instead I say I hope we may offer him the same feeling of home, and may we never hurt him again. 
Not even 24 hours ago, I accepted death. I welcomed it into my bedside, I asked it to stay, and I tried to follow it out when it left. Now, I am here to say that we have been heard, understood, and seen. What a beautiful thing to come from such a tragedy. What a beautiful thing indeed. 
Suicide is not light, future me. It is not something we toy with, so if you are back at this letter to find comfort in knowing that you tried, and to seek out the feeling of the morning after as motivation to not reach it, understand that life is as much as it us. It may be a lot, it may be heavy, it may be ugly, but it also may be beautiful in unexpected ways. Find someone again who sees the burdens you carry and does not shy away from your long nights. I promise, I promise love, it will be worth it. 

Goodnight, my sweet friend. May your worries drift into the soft abyss of unconsciousness and get lost on the way back. Today is a new day, and we will try to rise with the sun and stand with the moon. Goodnight. 

P.S. He reminded us not of everything we would leave behind and lose, but of everything we are, and somehow, that held more power.