Save Me

TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDE/MENTAL HEALTH/RELIGION



I beg God to take away the pain, but my voice is going hoarse.
I devote every night and scream to up above,
but the demons still mock me, and they start to cut my tongue.

I was told of His love and the Word that held rescue,
but the ink on the page is starting to smear.
I’m not quite sure if God can even hear.

The singing of the darkness grows louder in my head.
Soon, it is its melody that tells me I am better off dead.
God, please save me, just once more, again.

Immediately, the blades beckon and the sea sings of peace,
even the cliff's edge seems to be in reach.
I take this as my answer and plunge the blade into my chest,
take a few steps forward and dive off the ledge.

The blood that pools in the water is no indication,
there is so much more pain that I have had to bear.
My whole life I have been forced to soak in despair.
Maybe now that I’m gone, God will finally care.

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“God, please save me, just once more, again.” When I wrote that, I didn’t know how literal God could be. I didn’t know that just two weeks later, I would give in to the darkness, make the concrete decision to end my life, and swallow over 250 pills— and that it would actually, nearly work. I didn’t know that my sister would be the one to find me unresponsive in my bedroom, choking on my own vomit and only minutes away from death. Truthfully, none of my other previous attempts had ever required medical attention, so in the back of my mind, as I swallowed handful after handful of multi-colored pills, I had the niggling thought of, ‘you’re going to fail at this, too.’ So, naturally, I never expected to see pictures of myself in an ICU hospital bed on a ventilator, with so many tubes to keep me breathing that you could hardly see my face. Even more, I surely didn’t have any idea that when I went to bed that Sunday night, I would wake up restrained in a hospital bed, nearly four days later. Most importantly of all though, I could have never perceived just how many people would be in the waiting room of that ER, praying that the doctor would come out and say that I was stable, rather than I was dead; begging God to save me, just once more, again.

It's strange to say, but I think that ICU trip was probably one of the best things to ever happen to me. Before, I had held no regard for if I had lived or died. I didn’t think anybody else did either. Sure, if my life were to cease, everybody would be shaken for a little while, but after some time I figured that it would be like I had never really existed at all. I would be forgotten, and they would all be better off because I would no longer be contaminating any of their lives. Now though, when the feeling of slicing my own wrists invades my mind, I can’t help but envision the hopeful yet grief-stricken faces that surrounded my hospital bed when I finally woke up; the faces that had been there for days, unable to do anything but pray for a miracle and cry out to God in such devastating desperation that maybe they wouldn’t have to decide between a coffin or cremation. Maybe I would make it, instead. I don’t want to be responsible for that uncertainty and pain ever again.

I don’t know why I was born with a voice in my head that screams and pounds words into my skull like ‘worthless’ or ‘burden’ or ‘hopeless.’ I don’t know why I allowed it to control me for so long. I do know that I have grown weary of it though, and ever since that breathing tube was taken out of my body, and the ventilator keeping me alive was shut off, I have been ready to fight. I want to be so much more than just a girl full of pills and unfulfilled dreams. I want to be so much more than the bare-minimum; kept alive only by the people around me and not the God-ordained purpose placed inside of me. After all, my Father declared long ago that no weapon formed against me shall prosper— and that includes the parts of my mind that fall prey and prisoner to Satan’s lies.