If someone were to ask me

how I am feeling now,

i would naturally say I’m fine.

but sometimes, my greatest flaw

is hiding how I feel inside.

if someone were to ask me

how I am doing today

i would tell them I am not doing okay.

life has become more of a burden

rather than a gift.

it seems like there’s always someone trying to screw me over,

oh wait, that’s just me.

it seems like the universe is one big cosmic joke.

i hear my mother crying

echoing in my head.

i want to comfort her

but she’s nowhere near.

i know when she comes home

after ive worked my shift,

she’ll be put together, she’ll be strong.

but nothing seems to stop the record

playing on repeat.

over and over again, I can hear every sob with such clarity

it’s like she’s not gone at all.

life is kind of sucky right now,

trying to hurt everyone I love.

a close and trusted family friend

watches her 2 year old daughter

as she slowly succumbes to the cancer

plaguing her body.

a close friend, one I hold dear to my heart,

is watching and waiting,

holding his breath as the uncertainty of the life of

two members of his family

are slowly slipping away.

he wanted to end it all

the second he heard the news.

popping pills for two days

trying to escape the pain,

he grew slightly distant

so close yet so far away.

i often worry about him,

because he’s a few state lines away,

if something were to happen to him

i would never know.

i myself haven’t been faring

to the hand that life has dealt me.

an endless cycle of relapse and guilt

followed closely by a sharp sting

in both my arms and my heart.

I want to stop the bleeding

i want to stop the stinging

i want to stop it all

but it keeps calling me back.

like a moth drawn to a flame

i find myself with it again and again.

bright red angry streaks

crisscross my arms and shoulders,

my thighs and knees.

i want to stop this all

before it gets too far.

but it is the only thing

keeping me going.

it is the only thing

dulling the pain

in my heart, in my mind.

so, I guess if you were to ask me

how I am coping today,

i’ll look you kindly in the eyes

and say “I am alive today, that is all that matters.”

now my friend, it’s my turn to ask

how are you today?

I pulled the old black case out of the basement closet, dragging it up two flights of stairs to pack what my daughter might need for rehab. How can the objects I put in there tell her how much I want her to quit putting heroin in her veins and put LOVE in her heart instead. Please respond to your program, and not die by the randomness of a drug overdose.

I packed a childhood pillowcase hoping she would remember how innocent she was. I wrote inspirational quotes on notecards to put in the pocket of her favorite jeans. I packed a plastic toy horse called Spirit. I packed her some shampoo hoping she would rub some sense into her head. I packed some fish oil for her brain to heal. I packed the quilt her grandmother gave her. I packed cute shirts we bought together. I packed lavender soap hoping it would help her relax. I packed a fresh towel to use when she washed herself clean. I packed watercolors and paintbrushes since she used to love to paint.

As I struggled a little with the zipper, I said “You will live.”

- Sara Leslie Camacho October 9th, 2019

Hey. I know a speech isn’t what you want to hear now, that you want the whipping of the wind, the exhilaration of the fall, the sharpness before nothingness. You’re tired. I’m tired too. Why don’t we sit down for now, at the edge of oblivion, two tired souls?

Thank you for listening to me. Not many have listened to you recently have they? I can see it in your posture. You’re waiting for me to dismiss you, to tell you your words mean nothing. I'm not another demon, so if you wish, speak, release the water drowning you inside. Tonight, I am the one who listens.

.

.

.

I’m sorry about the pain you’ve been through, all the people who’ve turned a blind eye to your suffering. Sure, everyone suffers, but kindness should still be first and foremost.

You understand, with your heart on your sleeve. You’ve helped so many, had them rip that heart off and shred it as thanks once your purpose was fulfilled. How many times have you stood in my place, talking to someone in yours? You must be so very tired.

There’s so much more to life you know? You don’t have to solve everyone’s problems. I don’t know if it is a relief or an insult to who you are, this next sentence, but you are not responsible for everyone’s problems. It’s crazy, isn’t it? You know this, I know this. And yet.

Here, have this flower. I plucked it from this ledge we sit on, watching the stars which watch us back. Do you think there’s a god up there that watches over us? I do. Paradoxically, I also believe we can make our own decisions regardless of what God intended for us. Neither of us must be the therapist. We are allowed a little selfishness sometimes.

Why am I doing this? Maybe its selfishness, not wanting to see a life I could have saved gone on the wind, to witness your departure. You've felt this selfishness once, before you became tired. Maybe your selfishness is wanting to leave, and my selfishness is wanting you to stay.

Here, I hold out my hand. I ask that you take my hand, come with me, and maybe we can go get some nice warm food. I think we both deserve to indulge, to enjoy something with a simplicity we’ve since lost.

I know you're scared of the uncertainty of life and friendship, that I will rip your heart to shreds yet again. I cannot promise you I won't. Such is mankind. But as with this cliff, everything is uncertain. Risks are a part of life. I'm a risk. This situation is a risk. You are a risk. Yet I hold out my hand, risking the possibility that you won't take mine.

Will you take my hand, let me bring you somewhere where the light is warm and the aroma of food is in the air, with friendly chatter and comfortable seats?

Got nada for this challenge. I have loved many a suicidal thinker over the years, yet nothing I’ve ever said - kind words, hopeful words, begging, pleading, joking, encouraging, trying - has ever made a damn bit of difference.

I gave up on those methods and have switched gears now. Rather than wasting words, I’ve instead learned to just be there. Physically, if possible, as it seems best.

Don’t let them alone, particularly on bad days. As suicide seems a private affair simply denying that privacy with constant companionship seems the best solution. Even - or especially if - they don't want it. There's a reason there are no doors in suicide watch.

Obviously professional help is the way to go, but even after seeing someone the road out of darkness is best not traveled alone.

It can be difficult to companion someone who really doesn't seem companionable, particularly when their mood can exhaust your own. Which is why it's much easier to form a party. Taking turns taking care of someone, and making sure they have multiple sources of comfort, can help immensely. Keeping everyone charged is equally important.

As the Net memes say, Winnie the Poo and friends make excellent caregivers for the perpetually dreary Eyore; they never force him to be happy, they just continue to invite and include him on their adventures regardless.

How long you keep this up depends on the person. Suicidal people have to find their own reason for living; you can't give them one, or be one for that matter. Took me many miserable ages to learn that one. You can only stand watch, and keep them moving along, until they find it on their own.

And if it all fails, then it's important not to internalize their loss as your failure. People make their own choices. Nobody said life was easy; that goes doubly for the ones left living. Focus on the ones not yet lost, and keep yourself moving too. I don't think there's any shame in that, even if it may sound cold at times.

i’ll get it signed, of course, my perfect cornered

shiny covered first edition copy, and your name will spill

across the front pages, like a brand. i think

it’ll go up on my bookshelf, in some place of honor, and

i’ll love it forever of course but then

before i’ve even broken its spine i’ll buy your book

again, but this time in as a mass-market paperback, the kind

with the thin pages that almost tear under your fingertips and the

short, squat shape. that’s the one i’ll bring with me when I go to college,

you know, and it’ll end up thrown on my covers and

skated under my bed — the razor edges will get bent, pristine cover

wavy from unexpected rainstorms and misjudged page turns.

i won’t dog-ear the pages, but trust me when i say that there will be

dents in the pages from when I slide my finger in to mark my place.

and when your novel gets published -- when it’s there

in my hands? i think something is going to settle right

in my chest. did you know your world feels like coming home?

i want to meet your characters. i’m convinced i already have.

listened to a song you said you liked the other day and i

could almost see you, hunched over in the middle of the night

typing on your google documents, humming along to the lyrics. i

could almost your characters lip-syncing along to the lyrics.

i was crying a little, but i was at work so i pretended it was just

an aftereffect of my sneezing the minute before.

but you know what, my boss is an author, and i think she understands

just a little bit. shelved one of her books on the library shelf

and i laughed, but then i thought that maybe somebody

felt the same way about her when she got published. like maybe

that book could make you feel warm inside, like maybe

the sun was filling up your whole body with gold.

and when your novel gets published, i want to

document that feeling forever and trap it in the pages of

the novel you made with your own two hands.