Content Warning: This post shares honest experiences of living with suicidal thoughts. It may be upsetting or triggering for some readers. If you relate to this, you are not alone — please take care of yourself while reading.

9am

Twelve hours in bed.

Please go back to sleep. Please. Please.

Sleep is easier. Dreams are easier.

I wake up. Susan’s still asleep.

There’s screaming in my belly. My head is fuzzy. I feel like I might vomit. I try to pull my thoughts from deadly to just decent. That feels like hard work before I’ve even stood up.

It feels like my body wants to vomit the thoughts out.

I walk past the loft hatch and an image hits me — detailed, unwanted.

Like the house itself could be involved.

“Good morning.”

“What’s wrong with you? Cheer up.”

She doesn’t know what’s in my head.

I say “Morning.”

I never say good.

10:30

Grinding teeth. Nausea.

Sweet coffee. Very sweet. Maybe that will fix something.

I go into the lounge and try to hide what I feel. I don’t even know what expression I’m wearing.

11am

I’m told I’m moody.

I try to smile. Try to be lighter. Try to be someone easier to live with.

It feels like acting.

12:00

Argument. Oat milk maker. Of all things.

Chest pain starts. For a moment I think — maybe this is it. Maybe I don’t have to do anything.

It passes. Indigestion, probably.

It settles. I’m not a miserable twat after all.

No one ever really recognises it.

It’s invisible. A hidden disease. Fully functioning on the outside.

I won’t describe the ways my mind circles suicide. They are there. They repeat. They don’t get bored.

Dragging myself through the afternoon like an ox behind a blunt plough, I drift from room to room — trying to be happy, trying to smile, trying to appear normal.

That day I wondered whether the pills were keeping me grounded.

It didn’t feel like it.

It felt like I was doing the ploughing alone.

I don’t know if they can see more than they admit, or if they simply don’t see at all.

Either way, the day is long. It is sad. It feels like most days.

20:30

Downstairs. Alone.

The thoughts are still there. Same theme. Different shapes.

They don’t shout. They just persist.

I don’t think I could be more unhappy than I am today.

But I know I can. I’ve been worse.

This isn’t a crisis.

It isn’t a plan.

It’s a presence.

Suicide lives in my head.