Get up!

Winston Churchill said “If you’re going through hell, keep going.” Yet I often feel like I stalled. I sometimes feel like I can no longer move forward. That this is my hell, and I should stay in it. I have trouble getting out of bed. Sleeping the hours away, wishing all my troubles could fade away like the dreams I have. I dream often, I dream of me dreaming. My guilty conscience creating fantasy out of my reality, If I refuse to get out of bed my dreams will chain me to it.


So why do I get up at all? My favorite poet said “Climb not out of stubbornness. Not out of a need to demonstrate the depth of will it takes to carry on. But because you owe you one.” I get up because I owe myself. Wasted hours, wasted years of my life sleeping. For all of my hard work to get this far. My road in hell may never end but I will keep putting one foot in front of the other. Sometimes I may trip, or fall down. However stopping long since become no longer an option.


Story of Suicide

Old Man in Sorrow (On the Threshold of Eternity) painted by Vincent van Gogh in 1890. A man who suffered depression committing suicide shortly after this painting, never to see the popularity his works would gain after his life.



I once talked to a young girl who wished to die. At 12 years old she already decided her life was not worth it. I will never know if she went through with it, the amnesty of the internet protecting her. This was shortly after I decided to talk to people about depression, using my past experience as a compass guiding me to in hopes to give some small comfort. I will never learn this girl’s name, but her youth will stick to me. Learning that depression does not care about age, and its cruelty can strike anyone.

In February 2010, two girls hugged each other as a high speed passenger train ran them over at 110 miles per hour. A suicide pact, just a couple blocks from where I live. A third young girl who was meant to join them watched as their lives ended. They say only 1% of suicides are involved with pacts, made even rarer by the age of the young girls of only 16. Life moves on, but such heart breaking stories keep happening.

As someone who once thought the same way, who wanted to die, I want to help. However not everyone will hear what I have to say, and even less will listen. However, even if no one cares, I will still keep writing down my feelings. Life for me has never been about what I can see or touch, but how things make me feel. The feelings I have gained from such stories will stay with me, I will remember them, and i will share them in hopes they will be of use to someone else.


The greatest wisdom I can give to you from my short life on this earth is to speak. As humans we must learn to communicate our feelings to others, or let them rot inside us. Those rotting feelings poison our mind and body. We try to cut out this illness with a knife, or try and make the pain stop with deathly trauma.

We must learn to speak our feelings; we must learn to understand them by capturing them into words. It does not matter if you talk to someone, write them down, or yell them at the sky, as long as you say them! We live confusing lives, where understanding someone else’s pain seems impossible. The only way we can ever even try is to hear them, to read them, to seem them. Only then can we start to communicate.