A small note before we begin: this week's Substack includes a personal account of depression and passive suicidal ideation. Please read with care and take care of yourself, however you need to.
There was a period of my life when I didn’t want to kill myself, but I wasn’t particularly interested in staying alive either. It’s an uncomfortable distinction to make, but an important one.
I would sit in the dining room of my apartment, most of the time doing absolutely nothing. No television humming in the background or music filling the silence, just me in a space that had become uncomfortably quiet.
Outside the window, life continued without much concern for what was happening inside of mine.
Cars moved up and down the street as neighbors came and went, people walked their dogs, and somewhere above all of it, I could occasionally hear the low rumble of a plane moving across the sky. I’d hear it before I could see it, the sound growing louder as it passed overhead until, for a few seconds, it seemed to consume all that quiet. And I would think:
What if it just kept coming?
What if, instead of continuing toward wherever it was supposed to land, it descended straight through my roof? I could picture the whole thing with clarity. The plane falling out of the sky, metal tearing through the roof, the ceiling giving way and then one enormous BOOM.
And after that, nothing.
The end.
I didn’t want to be responsible for bringing the plane down; I didn’t want to press the self-destruct button myself. But if the universe wanted to make some horrible cosmic clerical error and drop one directly on top of me, there was a part of me that was okay with that.
Other days, the thought followed me outside.
I’d walk through my neighborhood because I was trying to do something good for myself, hoping that moving my body, feeling the sun against my skin and being surrounded by something other than the four walls of my apartment might quiet whatever was happening inside of me. Eventually, I’d hear the familiar mechanical groan of a RideKC bus approaching, followed by the hiss of its brakes as it pulled toward the curb. And my mind would wander somewhere it shouldn’t.
What if I stepped off the curb at exactly the right, or wrong, moment?
Once again, I wouldn’t have technically done anything. At least, that was the loophole my mind had found.
I struggled with thoughts like these for a while. What I now understand as passive suicidal ideation. At the time, though, I don’t think I fully understood the gravity of what was happening inside of me.
I knew I was depressed, but in my mind there was still a distinction between wanting to die and wanting to end my own life. I wasn’t making plans or preparing to say goodbye. I was still working, cooking, laughing with friends, dreaming about the future and doing all of the ordinary things that made my life look perfectly alive from the outside.
That’s the strange thing about being human.
Whatever we’re carrying doesn’t always announce itself when we walk into a room.
Grief can put on a suit and go to work. While anxiety can make dinner for the kids. And loneliness can host the party. Someone can make you laugh until your stomach hurts while carrying something they’ve never found the words to tell you.
Maybe there are people who come to mind as you read that.
A friend you haven’t heard from in a while. Your sibling. Your dad. The coworker who has seemed a little off lately. The person who is always okay.
Reach out.
Not because I’ve given you reason to believe something is wrong.
Reach out just to reach out.
September is Suicide Prevention Awareness Month, with World Suicide Prevention Day observed on September 10. It’s a subject that has become less shrouded in secrecy and shame, but I’ve found myself thinking about everything that can happen long before a crisis ever enters the picture.
And before you click out of this week’s Substack because you did not wake up prepared for all this talk of death, I promise the self-destruct talk ends here.
This week’s Substack isn’t really about dying. It’s about how we show up for one another while we’re living.
I’m a huge, huge proponent of early intervention. Not only the kind that happens when someone recognizes the warning signs and steps in, but the kind woven into the ordinary fabric of our relationships. Checking in before there’s a reason to. Calling because somebody crossed your mind. Asking your friend about the thing they mentioned two weeks ago because you remembered.
Send the meme. Invite them over. Ask them to go for a walk. Drop off something you cooked because you made too much. Tell somebody you miss them without immediately following it with “we should get together soon” and then allowing another six months to pass. Connection doesn’t always have to announce itself as care to function as care.
And I think that’s part of why Take What You Need exists.
TWYN doesn’t ask you to prove you’re hurting. There’s no threshold you have to cross before you’re allowed to need something. You can walk up to the installation in the middle of an otherwise ordinary day, scan a wall of letters and find one addressed to an ache you’ve been carrying quietly.
A letter is a small thing. Just a piece of paper, ink, an envelope, and a few hundred words from one human being to another. It isn’t therapy, and it isn’t meant to replace the support someone may need. But I’ve seen how a small gesture can travel. A letter becomes a thought, a thought becomes a text, and sometimes that text opens a conversation that wasn’t happening before.
I think that’s what I believe in most: creating more opportunities for us to reach one another.
And while you’re thinking about your people, don’t you dare leave yourself off the list.
Checking in with yourself can be just as ordinary as checking in with someone you love. Sometimes it’s simply creating enough quiet to notice that you’ve been more tired than usual, less interested in things that normally bring you joy, quicker to anger or slower to return a call.
How are you?
Whatever the answer is, you don’t have to wait for it to become more serious before taking it seriously.
You don’t have to wait for the plane overhead to start sounding like an invitation, and the people you love shouldn’t need to reach their breaking point before connection finds them either. That’s what early intervention means to me.
Care before crisis.
Reaching out simply because we still have the extraordinary privilege of being able to. So this month, we call a little more. We linger a little longer. We pay closer attention to the people whose lives intersect with ours and make a little more room for each other inside of them.
It’s not because we know who needs saving. None of us should have to reach the point of needing to be saved before we feel cared for.
If you or someone you know is struggling or needs support, call or text 988 to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. Free, confidential support is available 24/7.