We Need Help has been edited by Suraj Zala.
We need help. It took seven instances to make me realise that we (all) need help.
“Connecting you with the best suitable expert. You are number one in the queue. We will connect you as soon as possible.”
Wondering what this was? The online counselling for depression.
I stared at my screen for an hour, and the text did not change.
(Slow internet? Dysfunctional websites? Clickbait? I do not know.)
“Enough of this laziness, wake up and do something!”
That was my mum screaming.
But you see I cannot tell her that I do not want to get out of bed today because I am grieving.
A stomachache or a headache is a more socially acceptable excuse.
(But I used that yesterday and the day before it and the one before.)
“You are eighteen; your problems are not permanent. You have to fight, killing yourself is not an option.”
The guy from a suicide helpline.
I talked to him for 14 minutes and 29 seconds on the phone.
(And I am the kind that hates talking on the phone, so you know where this is going.)
In the last five minutes, he was more eager to hang up than I was to slit my wrists.
“Wrists. Put two fingers by your thumb on your right wrist. Wait to feel your heart beat.
(I know, I know, it’s broken, I know.)
Now take a razor and slice at least 1/4 in.
Follow down four inches, that vein controls your heart which means that is the vein you want.”
How do I know this? Come on, let’s not make you feel uncomfortable.
“I want you for all your demerits and dementia.”
The guy I went out with for a month told me this during a drunk conversation.
(Maybe this is what a real relationship feels like.)
But the moment I got done blowing him in his car on an empty road, he did a little thing with his smile that said, we are off soon.
“Thanks for ruining my birthday, whore. You fucking slut.”
My friend’s girlfriend.
What provoked her to say that to me?
I spent two hours with him talking about our lives.
Catching up, that is all.
(Do not be a fucking dick to other people man. Just. Do. Not.)
“It’s just a stupid indie band. Why are you so obsessed with them anyway?”
No. No. Stop.
If my survival strategies include a band’s existence, then let me be.
Just let me help myself in the least available way I can.
(You should all listen to The 1975.)
What I am trying to tell you is that I am not miserable. I am not. I am just mentally ill.
(I think we all are.)
To read more by the author of We Need Help, click here.