Salva Mea

I wonder what it’s like to be dead,
I hope it’s quiet, noise in my head like a riot,
Any remedy you have for me I’ll try it.
Just below my skin I’m screaming…
Help me

This post is the first in a series which discuss a suicide crisis and my subsequent treatment. Partly it’s therapy for me. Partly it’s to demystify what for many people is an opaque and frightening subject, which I believe should be spoken about more, and with more frankness. But obviously this could work as a trigger. Tread with care.

I’d stopped screaming, and I’d stopped running. I walked slowly, purposefully to the bridge. Pulled my headphones from my ears and nearly threw them on the floor, not like they’d be any more use. But I was brought up never to litter.

I’d stopped screaming, and I’d stopped running. I’d made it to the centre of the bridge, above where the Thames flows fastest and deepest.

This wasn’t the plan, this had never been the plan. The plan was more meticulous, more clinical, more assured than this. The plan involved materials I’d had to order in, materials which were sitting in my bedroom partially opened.

The Thames is green.

I climb onto the bridge railings. The railings are red. The Thames is green. I am breathing, I am gasping. I grasp the red railings, my mind reeling, Thames rolling, green, red mind railing, gasping, I’m grasping,

“Are you OK?”

Her scarf is blue.

I’m

“Can you take my hand?”

Her scarf is blue.

“Please take my hand”

I’m

“It’s not that bad”

I’m

Screaming. I’m on the pavement. The sun is hot. Her scarf is blue. Inside my skin I’m falling. She seems nice. I nearly broke my phone. I should get back to the office. The Thames is green. I’m screaming.

“We’re calling for some help”

Her scarf is blue.

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8 thoughts on “Salva Mea

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