End of the Road
But when no one sees you fall apart, who’s to say you touched the ground? If a heart breaks in silence, does it even make a sound?
R. K. Nightingale
Dear Bree,
I was fighting a storm yesterday, in solitude, when Vee said, “May I steal you for a minute, please?” And before I knew it, I was sobbing uncontrollably into their arms. I was begging this heart of mine to get a hold of itself, but it refused to budge. Kinda saying, ‘This is it. I am tired of holding on. Of fighting to stay alive. Of being broken into a million times, almost always, and having to bring these pieces together. I am tired of this bloodbath; my hands cannot gather any more shattered glass. I want rest. I want rest. I am not leaving, until I get rest.’
Even though Vee tries to sound calm, reassuring and talking me out of this fog, I can feel their voice breaking. I sense the fear in their eyes, having to sit next to someone whose mind is set on exiting this wretched world. I know they know even their words, at this moment, mean almost nothing to me. They know I know all these things they are saying to me.
I am brilliant.
A sight to behold.
A soft landing.
A gift to those who know me.
I know, I know, but what is there to do when the heart is tired? Where else do you draw strength? Or will? Or anything that might keep you alive? To whom do you turn when all roads come to an end, yet your feet are still running? Who allows you to run into them, knock them over, just so your heart can find rest? A home?
A couple of weeks ago, when these walls were crumbling and I was afraid it would be my last breath, I texted Ed to say, “I don’t know why, but I have a strong desire to just not be here. To cease existing, even just for a day, or a week."
I hated myself even more after I hit send, because who am I to put one of the most important people in my life in that position? A position of nothing but restlessness, uncertainty, and self-doubt? A position where they ask themselves endless questions: Is it something I did? Am I not enough? What is there to say that does not push her over the ledge? What is there to not say? To not do? To not be?
I was reeling in my thoughts, trying to hold myself down, when my phone chimed, lit up, with Ed’s response plastered on the screen: What can I do to make it easier for you? Anything. Don’t brush me off.
Someday, when I look back on this day, I shall realise this is when I knew it shall always be Ed. My heart shall always think of them when everything else loses meaning. Their arms shall be the only refuge that would calm me. It shall always come down to this, when I decide to describe what this warmth in my chest feels like. When someone asks what it feels like to be loved, unconditionally. To belong. To always have a home in someone else’s heart. To feel seen, with no questions asked.
No What happened? Why do you feel this way? Since when has this been going on? Just pure understanding, sometimes in the form of, “I am here, and I hope you know you are never a burden. Not to me. This is home.”
Then the bawling begins again. Like that day when the darkness had reached peak levels, and the foot always pressing down my chest had become heavier, but I kept telling myself I didn’t want to go yet. I was holding on for one more miracle. I was feeding on hope, even though at the end of the day, it is the hope that kills us.
The bawling begins again. Like that day when the darkness had reached peak levels, and the foot always pressing down my chest had become heavier, but I kept telling myself I didn’t want to go yet. So I found my way to Ed, but couldn’t bring myself to speak. Nodding ‘yes’ to requests, as if I was okay. As if I was not on the verge of death.
I have never felt seen as much as I did on that day, because right when I thought I was doing a good job at this hiding of pain, Ed began to speak to me about the importance of community. Of letting people help you shoulder your burdens. Because more often that not, when our hearts are broken, when we feel lost and alone and inclined to retreat, we need to show up. To entrust our pain to the community.
To summarise the article Ed was referencing, “Do not take your broken heart and go home. Don’t isolate. Step toward those whom you know will hold you tenderly… We cannot magically fix one another’s broken hearts. But we can find each other in our most vulnerable moments and wrap each other up in a circle of care. We can humbly promise each other, ‘I can’t take your pain away, but I can promise you won’t have to hold it alone.’"
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.
“Because I know you. I see you, even when you are hiding.”
People, looking in from the outside have been telling me how this has been the year they think I have been happiest. That everything my heart has always wanted seems to have born fruits this year. That my eyes have had the most genuine light this year.
All of this is true, but this is also the year I have most wanted to die. The year suicide has crossed my mind the most number of times. The year that has broken me the most. The year that I am writing this letter to tell you how hard it has been without you, and maybe that’s the reason death has been calling unto me, softly, tenderly.
