The night was quiet. Too quiet, actually. I sat in my room looking out the window, while inside me, three familiar voices were having an argument: my Mouth, my Heart and my Mind. They were arguing about someone I had known for years. His name was Suicide. I had always called him a friend because he seemed to appear whenever life became too heavy when the nights were long, disappointment hurt, shame returned, and painful memories from my childhood came back. He never judged me or asked me to explain. He simply whispered, “You don’t have to feel this anymore.” And maybe that was why I mistook him for a friend.
My Heart defended him. “He stayed when everyone else left. He knows our pain.” My Mouth disagreed. “He didn’t stay because he cared. He stayed because he wanted us to believe the pain would never end.” Then my Mind asked the question neither of us wanted to answer: “If he were really your friend, would he make you believe the world would be better without you?” I had no answer. My Heart whispered, “But he makes the pain quiet.” My Mind replied, “So do tears. So does sleep. So does talking. So does being held. So does telling someone you are not okay. Being quiet isn’t the same as being at peace.”
That was when I realized I had confused relief with rescue. I had believed Suicide was offering me a way out, when really, he was trying to convince me that the only way to escape my pain was to escape my life. A real friend would not ask me to disappear because I was having a difficult season. A real friend would help me survive it. Suddenly, I saw him differently. He had never loved me; he had simply learned the language of my suffering. He knew my wounds, my disappointments and the memories that hurt the most. He called himself an escape, but he was taking away things I had not even experienced yet. Tomorrows, laughter, birthdays, conversations, ordinary mornings and moments still waiting for me.
My Heart began to cry. “I thought he was protecting us.” My Mind answered softly, “No. He was convincing us that we weren’t worth protecting.” Something inside me broke open. For the first time, I understood that wanting the pain to stop is not the same as wanting life to stop. My Mouth finally said, “I don’t want to die.” My Heart answered, “I just don’t want to hurt anymore.” My Mind said, “Then let’s find another way.” So, we opened the door. We let someone in. We said the things we had been keeping inside for far too long. Nothing became perfect overnight, but I was no longer carrying everything alone.
That night, I said goodbye to Suicide. Not because I had won every battle, but because I finally understood that he was never my friend. He was simply pain pretending to know my name. Morning came, and as the first light entered the room, my Heart whispered, “Maybe tomorrow is worth meeting.” My Mind smiled, and my Mouth answered, “Then let’s stay long enough to see it.” Tomorrow did not promise an easy life. It only offered a possibility. And sometimes, when someone has been sitting in the darkest place for too long, a possibility is enough to hold on to. So, if you are carrying something quietly, please don’t carry it alone. Open the door. Let someone in. Your story is not over. There is still a tomorrow you haven’t seen.
Stay long enough to meet it.
