Living with suicidal thoughts without wanting to die.

I don’t want to die.

I don’t have a plan.

I couldn’t do that to my family.

But the thoughts are there.

They’ve always been there.

Sometimes they’re so loud it’s like static in my veins.

Sometimes they take a back seat and let me breathe for a day or two.

But they never go away.

I wake up every morning and my first thought is, “fuck, here we go again.”

It’s like clockwork.

Even on the good days.

Even when I’m laughing.

Even when people think I’m “thriving.”

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For years, I used alcohol as a silencer.

I drank to blur the edges, to hush the noise, to feel “normal” for a few hours.

Sobriety is raw in a way no one warns you about.

It’s like stripping the paint off a wall and seeing every crack you covered up.

Now the thoughts are louder.

Clearer.

Present.

I thought being sober would make me feel better.

Instead, it’s like meeting my pain face-to-face for the first time.

I don’t have a plan.

But I’m tired.

And I want it to stop.

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Even when I’m happy, high, or manic — the thoughts are still there.

Even when I’m low, they’re deafening.

It’s not about wanting to die; it’s about wanting a break.

Wanting to know what it feels like to wake up without dread.

Wanting to know what it’s like to exist without this background noise.

I don’t know who I am without the flames.

I’ve carried fire in my chest for as long as I can remember.

It’s my birthright, my shadow, my mask.

But I want to find out who I could be without it.

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Last week in therapy, I finally said the words: “I’m not okay.”

I didn’t make it pretty.

I didn’t dress it up.

I just let it spill out.

It was terrifying.

And it was freeing.

The mask cracked.

I didn’t crumble.

The world didn’t end.

For the first time in years, I felt air in my lungs.

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Survival is not living.

Hiding is not healing.

Silence is not strength.

I’ve been fluent in sadness for so long it became my first language.

I learned how to survive but never how to live.

I’m tired of being fluent in pain.

I want to speak something softer.

Something freer.

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October is about me now.

My inner critic has had the microphone long enough.

The voice that says I’m too much, too needy, too broken — its turn is over.

This month, I’m not rehearsing my pain to make it palatable.

I’m not shrinking myself to fit into anyone else’s expectations.

I’m not hiding my hurt to make it easier for others to stay.

This October, I’m saying: my hurt belongs here. My healing belongs here. I belong here.

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I’m scared to let people see the real me.

Scared they won’t love her.

Scared they’ll leave.

Scared that without my mask, there will be nothing left to hold.

But maybe the only way to quiet the noise is to stop hiding it.

Maybe the only way to heal is to stop pretending I’m okay.

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I’m still here.

Even with the noise.

Even with the heaviness.

Even with the mornings where I think, “here we go again.”

I’m still here.

That’s not weakness.

That’s strength.

That’s defiance.

I don’t know if I’ll ever feel “normal.”

But I know this: every day I wake up and choose to stay.

That’s not nothing.

That’s everything.

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