I was told a story today about an overdose. It was an attempted suicide. It was, as intimated, unsuccessful, and the life in question still remains on this earth.
I heard this story from the mum of the distressed soul, and my heart broke into a thousand pieces.
As a mum, I cannot begin to imagine the profound pain of knowing your child, your precious, beautiful baby, is so hurt and anguished that they no longer want to live. This life, this soul, who was once a part of you, who once slept and cuddled up close at night, feels that their life is not precious, is not special, is not worth a thing. I have no idea how deep that pain must run, as a mum.
As someone who has struggled with depression for years, who has thought (on many occasions, yet never taken serious action) how much better off others in my life would be if I were no longer around, and how peaceful my head would be if the thoughts and emotions were permanently silenced, the thought of waking up to the realisation that it didn’t work must be equally as painful. A very different kind of painful, but painful all the same.
To feel that life no longer has anything to offer, nor you it, to accept this as fact and act to fatally change it, must take a certain amount of determination and resolution, no matter how misplaced others may think it is. To suddenly find yourself awake, alive, the hurt and agony that drove you to this point still there, searing and unresolved, yet now a cloud of failure and disappointment enveloping it, swathing you with the reminder that you tried to find peace but couldn’t, that must hurt deeply too.
I have been both of these people in this tragic story, the mother and the depressive.
These dark thoughts occasionally still creep and slither around my mind but the mother in me is strong, stronger than I had ever realised, and she is conquering the dark corners of my head.
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