Finding Hope Beyond Suicidal Ideation: A Letter Without an Expiry Date

It’s been a while since I picked up my pen. Maybe it was the fog in my head, or maybe I was just too tired to face the words. But today, I feel the need to write it down. Because these last three years this life has been for myself.

The Weight I Carried

Suicidal thoughts followed me from late adolescence, like shadows I couldn’t escape. For years, I carried them silently, until one day, a friend stumbled upon a note I had written — a suicide note. That moment cracked something open. For the first time, I told her about something I had kept buried for six years. A memory that haunted me, one I just wanted to erase. She cried with me. Hugged me. At first, she said, “We’ll hit them.” Then she softened: “You didn’t do anything wrong.” She urged me to tell my parents. I resisted. She insisted.

Finally, I did. They were clueless at first, then slowly connected the dots between my unexplained anger, my mood swings, and my silence. And then, they took me to a psychologist. I remember crying through most of that 30-minute session. At the end, she asked me, “Are you sure it happened?” Then she told me not to be angry with the people who had hurt me, and reminded me of my parents. “Is it fair to them if you’re still angry and want to hurt yourself?” At that age, fragile and filled with self-doubt, I believed her. I agreed. And one thing changed — I decided not to talk to anyone anymore. Not even my family. Not even my friends. I didn’t want to “burden” them. But the wish to disappear didn’t leave. It grew stronger. Quietly. Beyond my control

Becoming the Villain in My Own Story

In college, people called me moody. Sometimes happy, mostly distant. I tried to make friends. It backfired. My world collapsed. Every negative word clung to me like truth. I felt like a nuisance. And I didn’t dare tell my parents — they already had enough burdens. So I convinced myself: Maybe I imagined it all. Maybe no one hurt me. Maybe I hurt myself. Maybe I had some hidden self I couldn’t see. Maybe I was hallucinating. Maybe I was schizophrenic. The darkness deepened. And I started to hate myself.

The Silent Battles of Suicidal Ideation

Some nights, I wished for an accident. A disease. Something that would quietly erase me. Whenever I had an asthma attack, I secretly hoped it would be the climax. At the same time, I began collecting ways to disappear. Watching cliché movies about bucket lists and “last days.” I even wrote a letter to myself — a list of things to do before an expiry date I had given my life. The last thing on that list was this: “Try therapy.

If it doesn’t work, I’ll follow the plan.” It’s almost cruel, isn’t it? A psychology student, unable to name her own pain. Studying theories of the mind, yet unable to face her own. By then, I was doing my master’s. I had found a few great people around me. And even without sharing the heaviness I carried, they stood by me. They didn’t demand explanations for my moodiness, didn’t force me to be “okay.” They simply stayed. And sometimes, that was enough to keep me breathing. Still, the letter waited. The expiry date loomed. And somewhere deep inside, I knew I had to face the last thing on my list. So I chose therapy. Again.

A Different Kind of Help

Eventually, I gathered the courage. I met another psychologist. And this time, it was different. I poured out everything. Instead of shutting me down, he said, “I’m sorry you’re hurt.” He didn’t ask me to stop thinking about death. He helped me understand why those thoughts came. He didn’t tell me to love my parents enough not to do it. He told me: It wasn’t my fault. You were a victim. And for the first time, I believed that maybe I wasn’t broken beyond repair. Six months into therapy, I was still doing the things on my list — but without an expiry date

The Letter I Found

Three years later, I stumbled upon that old letter again. I cried. Not just from pain, but from relief. Relief that I had survived. That I had found help. That I had written myself back into my own story. Now, I live without expiry dates. And if you’re reading this, holding on to your own silent battles — I want you to know this:

• You are not your pain.

• You are not the villain in your story

• And you don’t have to carry it alone.

  
  

Therapy didn’t erase my scars. But it gave me the courage to keep writing my story — without deadlines.