I pulled the old black case out of the basement closet, dragging it up two flights of stairs to pack what my daughter might need for rehab. How can the objects I put in there tell her how much I want her to quit putting heroin in her veins and put LOVE in her heart instead. Please respond to your program, and not die by the randomness of a drug overdose.

I packed a childhood pillowcase hoping she would remember how innocent she was. I wrote inspirational quotes on notecards to put in the pocket of her favorite jeans. I packed a plastic toy horse called Spirit. I packed her some shampoo hoping she would rub some sense into her head. I packed some fish oil for her brain to heal. I packed the quilt her grandmother gave her. I packed cute shirts we bought together. I packed lavender soap hoping it would help her relax. I packed a fresh towel to use when she washed herself clean. I packed watercolors and paintbrushes since she used to love to paint.

As I struggled a little with the zipper, I said “You will live.”

- Sara Leslie Camacho October 9th, 2019

Sitting on the ledge, watching little cars stream under our feet, I want to hear you talk. I know the adrenaline is pumping and your mind is porobably racing and the world is spinning. I want to hear it. If you verbalize it, maybe it'll help. Maybe letting all of your frustrations and anger and anxiety fall onto someone else, it'll help make you want to live. We can stay strangers since friends can be unreliable and family doesn't understand. You can go back inside and go on knowing this will never come out to another soul that you know.

I won't speak because I don't know what to say. I never know what to say. Things I know factually sound arrogant, things I know personally sound like I'm making this about me, things that I feel when you talk make it sound like I'm pitying you. I probably won't look at you because if you cry, I'll cry. If you are breaking, I'll break. If you look too deeply in my soul, I can't stay anonymous and will grow far too attached to just leave this ledge and walk away from you. I'll look at my feet and wonder what happens when we fall.

I've fallen before, and getting back up is hard. When you smack into the middle of Fourth Avenue and cars are hitting you every time you try to get up, it gets really hard to try to get up. That's why when I saw the soles of your feet and heard you crying, I invited myself into your space. I thought I had to get up on my own, and it didn't get easier until I finally took one of the many hands outstretched to me. It still wasn't easy since they didn't pull hard and I didn't put all my weight on them, but without that patience and care, I would've been flattened.

That long metaphor to say, talk to someone. I promise you whatever is going on will end eventually. You eventually get away from bad families. You eventually find someone that loves you for you. You eventually make it to the nicer part of life. I did it. So many people did it, and many of us are here for you because I guarantee you a lot of people that went through it remember that it is not easy. I still look at the scars (both actually and metaphorically) of that time and admire how far I came. It was a hard fight, and no fight is won without allies. So, make allies and know that if asked, I'll always happily be one of them.

Every day is a good day when I wake up and see your smiling face

even when the smile is somewhat weak, the troubles deep, you are with me

although our bodies slow but steady decay give lie to our ageless feel

and the days behind are far greater than those that await us

we still have walks to take, sunrises and sunsets to share

hikes up mountains, swims in the sea, late-night star gazing

meals to make, cookies to bake, hot cocoa days

wrapped in blankets or entwined on the couch

drifting off to sleep, hand in hand

as I hope it will be

with that last conscious moment

as we two slip

from this existence

to, perhaps,

infinity.

Back when my sister was still a little kid, she had a friend named Megan. Megan’s family played a game called ‘Peak and Pit’ at the dinner table every night. When my sister was invited over for dinner, she played this game with them.

The idea of the game is to name the ‘peak’ of your day, and the ‘pit’ - the best and worst moments of your day.

Back in whatever - seventh grade? - this game might have been an easy, ‘oh, I went to the dentist, what a bummer!’ as the pit. The peak might be ‘Evan talked to me in the hallway!’

As we get older, I think this conversation becomes more imperative. Mental illness, and suicidal ideation, might make it so that those suffering have no ‘peaks’ at all. This is their darkest hour.

This isn’t an easy topic. It’s messy, gritty, and ugly. There are no easy answers to this rather impossible, timeless question: is life worth living?

In seventh grade, I was a plump, happy-go-lucky, bright young student. At the age of almost thirty, I can now say with confidence that my ‘pits’ have landed me in psychiatric facilities five times, if we’re not counting outpatient centers, individual therapy, or even partial hospitalization programs.

To those suffering, the count doesn’t matter. They’ve already read what I’ve written, in some form. They need hope that one day, things will get better. For real this time.

I want them to know that even in lousy seventh grade, when my peak was talking to Josh between Chemistry and English, I still had a peak, even if I didn’t know it enough to voice it at the dinner table. Even after the mental illness kicked in and I got wheeled in a gurney to some ward of whose name I shall never speak again, I had a peak. Because in the game, there has to be a peak to go with the pit.

I have a voice in my head that doesn’t shut up, that wants to die, but it knows. There’s another voice that existed before you got sick.

There’s peaks. Because there has to be.

Your pit is the darkest moment before you turn thirty when you think it’s never going to get better, but it will. It always does.

Do you feel like you want to die, or do you just want to not be where you are right now?

Do you have thoughts of hurting yourself?

Do you have a plan?

Have you attempted suicide before?

Did you know that in certain situations, ideation, or thoughts of dying, thoughts of not wanting to be here anymore, thoughts of wanting to just fucking feel anything else... as awful and terrible as it sounds... those thoughts are coping skills.

I know it doesn't sound like it would be, but sometimes our brain wants to protect us when we are vulnerable, afraid, or in lingering chronic pain.

Depression is a liar- I assure you. If that were not true, you would not be here looking for truth- truth that things can, will, and do get better. You would not be here to desire to read this.

You sit reading this having gotten through 100% of your worst days so far; so there is comfort in knowing no matter how deep the rabbit hole of your depression, your anxiety; no matter what your brain unleashed when it over-powered even your very personality... you are still here.

Do not take your pain or your experiences for granted. I tried to kill myself, and I mean I really tried. At the time, yes oh my gosh I wanted so much to just not feel- anything. Looking back, I still remember every second of that pain that led to such a blank and seemingly somehow frantic panic that I could not do it fast enough.

That was six summers ago. After about 400 days I stopped counting. I would be lying if I told you I made my life better, or that I never think about it or have ideation anymore. I also can in solid truth tell you... those years between then and now have been some of the worst and hardest in my life- but even in those times, I would not let myself entertain the thought, at least for not too long.

Suicide is perminate. Emotional pain, physical pain- treatable, as is anxiety and depression. I chose to be bigger than the thing that almost broke me. I chose to be stronger than myself, and I have made that choice everyday since then.

So... can you help me help you?

I know you enjoy repairing and building things... making good use of the hands that dangle between episodes of strength and hardship- one nail or qwerty at a time. Tap into that and let's see what you can do?

You

walk

over

and

over

and

over

and

over

me,

but

I

just

can’t

seem

to

stop

coming

back,

I

just

can’t

seem

to

stop

being

your

staircase.

As light as a feather, she dives, slices into the water like a single raindrop

She's as graceful as a swan, she's like a knife piercing through the water

A pencil she is, an elegant seal, a word shaped within your lips

Under the enchanting waters, she is a frolicking dolphin in the deep

An early morning mist hovering above the water is as charming

Her breath is steady but restless as she daintily steps

She breaths deeply at the top of the board

Her arms swing back and forth in pace

Her chocolate eyes determined, playful, and ready

She bounces steadily, set and prepared

And points her arms up

Jumps into the air

She curves swiftly

And dives

Splash

“Why you cryin’, boy?”

“Mama, it’s my birthday. You said you wasn’t gonna drink today. For me. You said we was gonna go to the park. You, me and Dani. You promised, mama.”

“Don’t you be tellin’ me what I said, boy.”

“Ooooow!”

“Now see what you done, boy! Made me hit your sister with that glass. I’m gonna beat you boy! Making your sista’ cry like that.”

“But mama...Mama! Don’t!”

“I hate you, boy! You hear me! I hate you! You ain’t nothin’ and ain’t never gonna be nothin’! It’s your fault we stuck in this dirty piece of shit hole. Weren’t for you, I’d be a famous movie star by now. I’d be somebody...Why the hell we gonna celebrate your sorry ass coming into this world. You ain’t been nothin’ but trouble since you was born.”

“Mama! Please! Stop! Mama!”

****

“Well, go on then. Get up. Change your clothes and put something clean on your sister. We best be going to the park while it’s still light out.

“Boy? You hear me, boy?”

“He’s not moving, mama.”

“Boy, stop your playing. You better get on up off that floor now if you wanna be going to that park for your birthday.

“Boy?”

“Mama?”

“Yes, baby?”

“Teddy is bloodin’.”

“Oh baby. What I gone and done? What I gone and done?”