I should have known I should have known you were hurting but I was blinded by my pride I should have figured something was wrong by the way you held your eyes. I lived in fear and confusion, but this is no excuse. I should have known how much it hurt you, the pain of this verbal abuse. I was so involved in myself and my seemingly “unbearable” feelings. To recognize your obvious grief. When you would flip, I'd say it because you were dramatic. Your brothers and I would laugh about it. We were blinded because of our sarcasm. You hid your fear and depression, with your ecstatic enthusiasm. I should have known it was all a lie. But every time I would just walk on by. I felt you hated me for so long. I never knew it was because of your desperate time. I should have learned to read the room and to use my words with wisdom. You were always smiling, but now I know it was all a mask. Then all your feelings tried to come down, in a crash. That night you tried to end it. I swear I would have been the one. If I had only known about it. But instead, it was the friend, the one who cared enough to know. With a phone call, he ended your decision. When the police came to the door You hid it from everyone, your mother doesn't even know. I found out about 9 months later when I swallowed my pride. We are great now, the hole in our relationship sewn. I just wanted to tell you how much I wish I had known.

The fatigue hit Bessie on a bright day, one made for happiness, not for fraught thoughts of suicide. The reticent seventeen-year-old felt abject misery, knew the emotion was unreasonable, yet she was incapable of resisting the depression. “Why was I ever born? Was it so that I could suffer day after day, with no hope of some kind of reprieve in sight?” she typed on her Facebook post. She stared at the screen for some seconds, contemplating whether posting her comment would be wise, or ill-advised. “The trolls out there in cyberspace are far worse than those of myth,” she cautioned herself, finger hovering shakily over the ‘Post' button. Abruptly, as if ripping off an unwanted Band-Aid, she stabbed down on the keyboard. Seconds later, the post appeared on her timeline. It didn't take long for her Facebook friends to respond. Bessie was overwhelmed by the incoming comments that followed each other in rapid succession. The first one read: You were born to be loved, not to suffer. Reprieve might be out of sight, but believe me, it IS there! It was from her Science study buddy, Ghiyona. The next comment caused a catch in Bessie's throat: If you were never born, I would not have known such kindness. You were made to be loved, Bessie. This one was from her gay friend, Willie. Bessie started to cry softly, the pain in her heart feeling like a knife being shoved mercilessly deep into her soul. “I love you, Willie,” Bessie responded to his comment; she felt at a loss as to how to reply to Ghiyona's, so she simply attached a heart emoji to the girl's comment. More comments followed, each one listing reasons why Bessie should hold on to hope, fight against submitting to life's harshness, believe fervently in herself. As Bessie was about to log off Facebook, one more comment slid in under the post. It caused the distraught adolescent to pause. Your life was given to you as a gift. True, it is your right to accept or reject the gift, but why would anyone refuse to embrace what is more precious than treasure, more profound than the knowledge of the ancients? Why would you, Bessie, forget how inimitable you are, that there is literally no other quite like you? The comment continued for a few more lines, but Bessie's vision blurred because of the tears streaming down her face. She was confused, for the comment was from the one person Bessie was convinced hated her the most. The very person who had brought this despondent mood upon her, who had been relentlessly criticising her each day for the past two weeks. Bessie blew her nose and read the last part of the comment: You are stronger than you know, but that core of steel will carry you across all obstacles. Have faith, Bessie. Some hitherto hidden door of insight swung open widely in Bessie's mind. Her worst critic, her Maths lecturer, was also her greatest supporter…

The man and the woman, a union ordained for bliss Bliss ethereal yet tangible, like the honeyed taste of a kiss But this bliss is sent to hell, when the man says he is a beast Of course not with his mouth, but when his pride becomes his fist. Iya Bisi said "For my children I will stay". "I need to be around to get the daily bread in place". Really, she had hidden fears about what people would say If she fled for her safety, away from Baba Bisi the Great Should we wait until her eyes are swollen and black? Before we see that our vision is blurry and dark Mandela's hands in the air spoke of a freedom age Why do the hands of our brothers speak of bondage? Zainab swore she would go to the university But Hassan came with naira for his bride Thus scissors went into her private princess parts Another child has become wife. Bolanle's oranges were neither ripe nor exposed And her thighs were warmed by a baggy pair of clothes She was three days in as the latest teenager on the street Then three rounds of rape sent her hanging on a rope. The pandemic strolled into our world Then quarantine drove us into our homes But Ogechi's home was a prison, and she was a detainee She lived in a ring with a stronger opponent and no referee In fact if their common name was Floyd, He would be Mayweather and she would be George. She was one woman with one thousand responsibilities. Everyday came with reasons to stretch her abilities. But even elastic strings have their limits Maybe hers would be the day her heartbeat is quiet. This message to our society must go viral. We must wake up to cherish our women. We are blessed to have these living, breathing temples Who are we to desecrate deity?!

With the fading of the music~ and the return of calm, is an opportune moment to touch base with your heart parallel to your thoughts a systemic disagreement the dismemberment of your enthusiasm. With a discord in your humanity, and the loss of grit an emptied conscientious the very loss of meaning with no one is close enough to rescue you from the snares before you as you brace for a pitfall into the galaxy the numbness of your physical being a flashlight into the everlasting as you become aware of a higher power taking over. Your ability to control is disabled as the pills the knives and loneliness become your closest companions demanding your love and affection an immense unity you won't return from the awakening of your loved ones unaware of your struggles a little too late for a remedy the beginning of the end a life cut so short...

I attempted suicide, twice. Don't be perplexed, please. Can I lend you my voice? Pressured or overwhelmed with the ills of life? Or have you made a terrible mistake worthy of public shame and humiliation? Suicide is still not an option. Truthfully, if I had successfully committed suicide then, I probably would have been a forgotten history with no form of relevance. I attempted suicide first after I failed my O'level exams (WAEC) for the fourth (4th) time. Then, to me, it was finished and pointless trying to live. After my 4th failure, I was tired, and instead of me taking a rest, I decided to shut down. Suicide became the only available and valid option for me. The shame and humiliation of writing the exam with teenagers and students I taught and that I was far older than and I was certainly brilliant than they were, but, I still failed in blinding colors, with those teenagers excelling and moving forward. I was tired of remaining stuck for the fourth time now. Was I brilliant? Yes. Did I burn mid-night oils? Yes. Did I get my textbooks and past questions booklets? Yes. Did I attend tutorials? Yes. What went wrong? I had no idea up until now. I had no encouragement from my family then. I rather got rebuked and scolded for not putting in so many efforts as they expected. I was trying, I knew. At age 21, I was still writing my O'level exams and was still failing in blinding colors. It wasn't easy for me, but, only I understood that. I was in a world of my own. Drowning in a deeply disturbing ocean with none to rescue me. For a girl who graduated secondary school at age 15, and was still struggling to pass her O'level exams till age 21, you should imagine how humiliating this could be. I felt God had left me to my fate and that destiny was been unfair to me. That night, after returning from the cybercafe, I gulped down a bottle of Gentian Violet, GV, (a liquid purple ink used on open wounds to prevent germs intrusion and to cure skin ulcers). How I survived to die from that attempt still remains a mystery. On my fifth attempt, however, I finally passed my O'level exams. I never would have had a chance to anchor that success and victory if my suicidal attempts turned out successful then. But, I sure enjoyed the feel of victory and success after so many failed attempts. My second suicidal attempt when I was raped and jilted by my first boyfriend. We dated for two months. Young and naive, I was pressured into giving him a chance by my peers since they had changed boyfriends for more than the third time. He was fourteen years older than I was, even though he lied at the initial stage that he was just ten years older than I then. As a teen who wanted to be in the know-how, and to feel among, I allowed him to kiss me behind vehicles at night (that happened only once though). We met at his place (he lived in the same street with me), and on my first visit, nothing happened. My second and third visits were the same, and to me, I had met an angel, a perfect gentleman. I felt safe and secure around him. My fourth visit was what gave me a huge scar which I still bear till today. He dared and threatened me to lay with him, despite all of my pleas. And against my will and pleasure, he penetrated into me with my hands tied to my back, and legs left hanging up, like an animal about to be castrated. I regretted accepting his proposals that evening. I should have just maintained my stance of 'no relationship' until I was physically, emotionally, and psychologically prepared for it. Peer pressure gave me a huge blow. He had sex with me and also deprived me of the opportunity to feel the assumed 'pleasure' associated with 'sex'. My acclaimed boyfriend and first love raped me that evening without protection and absconded from the area the next day. Since that evening till this moment, I am still yet to lay my eyes on him. I still have nightmares though. I tried careless walking on main roads several times to be knocked down by an oncoming car and die, but, it never happened. I bought rat poison, and I took it, hoping that I'll die, but, I didn't. I have lived with that hurt up until now, and I love the relief I am getting in the inside of me as I write this to you. In all, God wins. No matter what life throws at you, please, suicide should and never be an option. Even if the worst happens, don't stop believing in God and believing in yourself. You should live. You deserve to stay alive, mentally, and psychologically fit. Overcome your past, overcome your hurts, overcome your failure, overcome the heartbreaks, it is a very good step to healing. Your mental and psychological well-being is my concern. Thanks for your time once again.

The intensity of the war in Manzi was better experienced than explained. We knew what we signed up for when we enlisted in the Elite Rebel Forces, we had to fight for our country and free it from tyrants who had taken over the reins of government. The Black Movement weren't just random people or some motley crew with guns – they were regimented, sponsored and systematic in their fighting approach. We had lost a lot of our men in the crucible of combat but giving up was never an option, we vowed to die fighting than to surrender to the marauding army of the Black Movement. We fought for our children, those still alive and those that were yet unborn. We fought for our women, some who had been kidnapped, others raped and for those who had been killed. We fought for our farmlands, the farmlands our own fathers left for us which were the only source of livelihood we knew. Our communities were decimated and degraded, what remained was a shadow of a once prosperous land laid waste by terror – a fitting parallel to the ruins of the ancient city, Rome. There was a Manzi. We were outnumbered in the fight and putting up any kind of opposition looked more and more like a suicide mission but we had come too far to walk back. Some days were particularly deadly, we brought back more men in body bags than other days. The Black Movement were known for striking at odd hours, when we seemed to have let down our guard. So we hardly slept at night because of these devils. The war took a sinister turn when most of our top Elite commanders started dying in a mysterious but familiar manner. After any famous blow dealt by a commander to the Black Movement, they would regroup and infiltrate a well-fortified camp led by that particular commander who would later be reported to have been killed under strange circumstances. Many of our men had run away because they didn't see any light at the end of the tunnel. Others had committed suicide because they just couldn't cope with the trauma and torture of losing their loved ones who were slain in the most gruesome manner. Even those of us who fought on were becoming weary, it seemed the more we looked at the rope, the more it looked like a snake. All hell broke loose when a junior Elite came to us in the dead of the night. We had started shooting at him instinctively and almost killed him thinking he was an emissary of the Black Movement. What gave us second thoughts was when he lay flat on the floor in a way only an Elite would – it was then we held back our gunfire. Behold, it was Wakabi, son of Juto. He share the gut-wrenching account of how he found his father's body riddled with bullets. Just before his father passed, he confided in Juto that he was killed because he uncovered that most of the commanders of the Elite Rebel Forces had been compromised. In fact, they gave out the classified details of our missions to these infidels who successfully ambushed us with ease. He alleged that they did this in exchange for protection and also a part of the ransom payments that came in from kidnapping. I looked at Wakabi straight in the eyes and told him never to insult our collective intelligence by lying against our commanders. I checked his body for communication devices and rigged bombs in case he was being tele-guided by the Black Movement who usually deploy this tactic as condition for releasing a family member in captivity. He swore on his late father's honour that he wasn't doing this under duress neither is he trying to stoke the embers of discord amongst the ranks. Wakabi was a man with many faults but lying wasn't one of them. Our camp was thrown into chaos; many fighters believed Wakabi while others claimed he was on the payroll of unpatriotic elements. Wakabi had run for dear life because he also alleged that the Black Movement had rogue fighters within us working for them and it was hard to tell who was on our side and who wasn't. I almost slumped. All I could think of was how I had become a pawn in a very dishonest chess game. I couldn't join those who headed to the central command to challenge the top Elites with the veracity of these claims. I became suicidal and at some point, almost pulled the trigger on myself. Providence had other plans for me. My bosom friend, whom we called the “Sniper” intervened just at the right time and smuggled me out of the camp and checked me into a medical facility on the outskirt of town. The doctor diagnosed me of acute PTSD – Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He told me that suicide didn't solve anything, rather it left my loved ones in more severe pain that I could imagine. He was blunt enough to call it selfishness because I was only thinking about myself and not how my death would hurt my family who were praying day and night for my safe return. I was told to find a reason to live; that reason was my family – I vowed to live for them!

The image of my brother standing limp with his head drooping to his side invades my mind again. It is how I imagine he must have looked when he was lifelessly hanging from a rope. After my other brothers told me they found his body in the garage, I sprinted over in hopes to see his laughing face that revealed it was a hoax. My mom stood outside and ended my run by giving me an aggressive hug - a tight, aching squeeze that only a mother of a dead child can give. Her intention was to prevent me from seeing my brother, Edward, dangling from the ceiling. Even in her most fragile state, the primal instinct of a mother protecting her child remained with her. However, the silhouette of my brother's wilted body was created by my subconscious that night. It permeates my thoughts when I am in a vulnerable frame of mind. When Edward's image enters my head, the same question stands before me: have I learned from his death? Loving someone who has committed suicide can throw you on a desperate hunt for meaning. Mourners want to prevent the suicide of someone else. We have this yearning to be able to stop others from taking their own life since we could not stop the death of our loved one. Beyond this, we grieve differently. For me, guilt dictated my life. My guilt stemmed from my lack of belonging with my family and the belief that Edward would have blended so much better if he were still alive. I have been described to be the most annoying, stubborn, and sensitive family member. Even before starting elementary school, I asked my mom if I was born into the wrong family. Maybe Death was supposed to take someone from my family that fateful day, but He left with the wrong soul. The impact of my guilt was deeper than morbid thoughts. My actions ruined my peace. I became hypercritical of myself during arguments with my family. Even when I had justified reasons for being angry, the same pattern continued. First, I reflect back to the bickering that my 11-year-old self had with my brother before his suicide. Then the image of his slumped body forces itself to the forefront of my mind. This prompts the stage where I ask tortuous questions. How would I feel if my other brothers or sister died while we were in a fight? Is Edward disappointed in me for not getting along with everyone? Have I REALLY learned from his death if I do not maintain peace with my family? The last step begins after my self-loathing overpowers any valid anger I have. This is when I forgive people out of fear of being on bad terms rather than because they feel remorse. I performed this unhealthy routine for nearly two decades. Then a traumatic event happened. Feeling that my siblings did not support me exacerbated my mental health in the aftermath of the trauma. My siblings are people who would prefer to keep negative sentiments out of their conscious mind, whereas I am the type that believes that pain is the inevitable step for resolution. I frustrated them for bringing up the trauma I experienced because it was uncomfortable for them. At the same time, I was exasperated they chose to be oblivious when I was suffering in front of them. After years of ineffective fighting, I wanted to divorce my family. However, the image in my mind did not let me. Then I came up with a healthy idea: family therapy. My family needed to address our unresolved issues. I could not continue ignoring my hurt just to keep relationships. The trauma did not let me. I hoped this would be the method to get my siblings to see the agony that doing nothing can cause someone who needs support. My mother was invested as she longed for her children to get along. No one else was. This shattered my heart. My mom and I still went to therapy, and it taught us so much. For example, the honesty I spewed to my siblings never got through to them because they were too distracted by my cruel words and raised voice. More importantly, it gave me the clarity that I fought against. Instead of uncovering a secret way to be in harmony with my family, I learned that a person cannot force others to be invested in a relationship if they are not willing to be vulnerable. Sometimes, we have to find peace in the fact that there will not be peace. I continued to recognize and work on my faults. My destructive thought pattern was envisioning my brother in a way that added more stress onto me. I realized I forgot what he looked like when he smiled. This painful realization resulted in me rummaging through old photos. I found a picture of my siblings and cousins where Edward looked to the side with a wide grin. I had to be intentional about imagining this laughing face during distressed times. It was unnatural at first. Now, I feel empowered during difficult moments because I see a smiling brother who is proud of his indignant little sister. There are times when the old image is my intrusive thought, but it is now rare, and then it is replaced with the new image in my mind.

We've all heard it. We've all felt it. Someone falls victim to suicide and the *nearly* unanimous cry is, “Why didn't they get help?!” “Why didn't they tell someone?!” Chances are really good that they tried. They tried really hard. But most people who are not at risk of suicide think that the path to it is paved with bright neon signs that say, “SUICIDE! THIS WAY!” The fact is that no matter what side of the political and religious spectrums you are, most people recoil from the subject of death, and the very idea that someone could intentionally end their own life goes against every fiber of our being. So, unless we are forced to deal with the ugly aftermath, we downplay it as much as possible, assuring ourselves that if we saw someone on that awful road, we would recognize it. But would we really? And do we really think that someone who is contemplating suicide sits there logically weighing the pros and cons before seeking advice from their friends and family? Yeah, I didn't think so. In order to recognize the real signs, we first need to get it out of our head that self-inflicted injury or death is about death. It's about pain. Think about the last time you got the norovirus or food poisoning. You felt horrible. It goes on and on and you just want it to stop. Your body contorts involuntarily. You can't think about anything else except that you just. Want. It. To. Stop. What if, instead of twenty-four hours, this state of being kept going – indefinitely. Now, let's imagine that, inexplicably, no one can tell that you have food poisoning. They walk by, try to have conversations with you, go about their business – all while you're being actively, violently ill. You can't speak except in single words and basic concepts. Some of the people who pass by are annoyed. They can't see what your feeling and they wonder why you won't speak in full sentences or aren't paying attention to what they were saying. Others think maybe something's wrong with you and that makes them uncomfortable, so they hurry by. Still others want to help, but they also kind of think – deep down – that you're being a big baby. “Chin up!” they say. “Everything's going to be ok! There was this time when I didn't feel good, so I started exercising and that helped so much! You should try it!” Meanwhile the life is draining out of you and you care less and less. You start to feel as numb as a rock. You may as well be one. A rock can't feel. The more pain you're in and the longer it lasts, the more you become singularly focused on just making it stop. It doesn't matter how. In your helpless state, what you need is someone to recognize that your silence is pain, that your cries are not dramatic, that you are not weak or without faith. You need someone to get down on the bathroom floor and hold your hair back. Because ultimately, it's little, real, meaningful gestures that can help guide hurting people off a path they don't even realize they are on. What signs do we need to be watching for? Everyone is different, so everyone is going to behave differently when they are struggling. Be vigilant when someone is not acting like themselves. They don't seem to be enjoying the things they usually enjoy. Smiles may be scarce and forced. They stay in bed or lay in bed for unusual lengths of times (don't we all want to curl up in bed when we aren't feeling well?). If they go as far as to communicate with us, we need to listen carefully. Don't dismiss self-deprecating language, even if it sounds like a joke. Know when to encourage socialization and when to recognize that it's too much. Recognize also that your own scope of aid may not be enough. Your friend may need gentle nudges towards getting professional help. And if we hear about someone who has fallen victim to suicide – let's not dead-shame. Instead, lets redouble our efforts and pay close attention to the hurting people in our lives. Let empathy wash away the fear and discomfort that so many of us have in the presence of pain. Embody comfort. Listen. Be there. Love.

I look myself in the mirror, I can discern the decay of my face. There is no smile anymore. The stasis of my lips offers satisfactorily lust in my thoughts that torment my mind with Medieval methods. I touch my idol in the mirror and I hurt. I try to close his eyes, but I cannot. They stay open and still and they look morbidly. Chainsaws echo from the overlooked cemetery, tear into pieces mercilessly the marble crosses. What have I done to myself so he looks at me like this? Why my sharpened teeth do not appear on the glass surface with sole purpose to bite her? Sorrow hallowing my forehead with sorrow. Indestructible thorns jab more deeper in the flesh of my skull. Bloody tears sparkling in my hands' palms. If I scream I will die. If I die I will have to kill. If I kill I am obliged to leave. If I leave, I will return. God, why, the sorrows of people transmute into ebony coffins that are buried within my heart? If only I could soothe my consciousness for seven days… I feel something to choke me. My throat is asphyxiating while my glass idol laughs horrendously. I can't stand the howling. No, yell at me no more. Reigns powerful silence, and then spasms commence recalling me in my starting position, before abyssal darkness arrogates my senses. Maybe fate leads me in a deathly destiny, which in case it happens, will become the salvation which is the highest virtue for a tormented soul like mine. No, I don't murmur. The existing circumstances of life have tired me insurmountably, because as I try to open a way out to the future, it ricochets me to the past. Death is the physical continuation of life, and I will be delighted if it happens to the days of my youth, for the simplest reason, that I cannot avoid him. To speak the truth, I don't want to avoid him. I want desperately to remain alive and to feel whatever joy I can, but they don't let me. In which attempt I give or trying to be present, they find ways to chain me and isolate me. The only thing that will never succeed in accomplishing is to handcuff my mind. A free spirit clearly suffering, but in no way it can be imprisoned. A free spirit prefers death so not to lose innocence, insight, respect and prestige. I have thought many times while I stroll in the city, how life would continue if I committed suicide… For sure there will be consequences and repercussions to people who they love me , however they would continue to exist without me, and with the flow of time the rift of pain would heal in desired spots. The verb “die” does not fit here, so, reasonably I use the verb “suicide”. Suicide is not an act of cowardice as some falsely believe. Because nobody knows how much pain a single human has within his soul. Nobody knows the spiritual boundaries and the stamina in a daily routine that open wounds that cannot be healed. How many people we see daily that smile whilst inside them are literally devastated… How many people we see daily that seek a kind word, a velvet touch, an understanding breath, and the only thing that get is disdain… How many people daily we place of the beam of desperation without remorse…Here is a key word which provokes pathogenic causes with fatal results. Suicide as a meaning and as an act certainly is the ultimate hybris against God, though requires determination and courage to turn yourself against yourself and violently remove the coveted life in that way. How many of you have done this macabre thought at least once… In this theater of paradox we daily live, the incarnation of life to life seems like an unreachable dream. Loneliness, disappointment, sorrow, wrong choices, guilt, remorse, unemployment, compulsion, hatred, unfairy tax policies, lies, eradication, violation of human rights, greed, selfishness, stab democracy that all people worship. The rule of law which could be, turns into a cradle of powerful coldness where everything collapse upon the enormous steel walls of human separation. Undead people wander everywhere aimlessly. They stamp upon dead bodies, seeking comprehensible sunrays of justice and transparent water to wash away their sins. How would it seem to the violators of this planet, who have elevated the obedient lobotomy to a profitable enterprise, a universal peace, which it would dismiss forever the wars for interest and people would live happily? A universal peace will destroy forever the human funnel grinders of annihilation. Only by thinking of it, my heart shivers from hope and expectation. A universal peace would give meaning in words and prestige in actions of future generations in a planet which agonizes… The only thing that is needed is an incision of kindness into the hearts of men… An incision that will bring back long-forgotten feelings, good deeds, smiles, hope… Hope for a palatable future life. We need love to live, not pain. Tears drop from my eyes as my words breath on the paper. What I wish for, what I want is, my words breathe inside your psychic dreams…

''We as the society, are guilty of murder for every suicide...'' - Nwokeji Bianca Suicide and depression are one bloodline. Suicide is a rebirth of depression. Depression is a cancer, it eats up your mental stability and deprives you of the purpose for living. At a point, you begin to question your existence, life begins to feel worthlessly anguishing, you'll decide to take the 'easy way out', and then suicide sets in. Let me share a little story. I once knew a woman, or rather, an angel. She shined brighter than Sirius, and her smile; so beautiful and warmer than the rays of the morning sun, levitated weary souls and fixed broken hearts. She brought peace to the unrest and gave hope to the hopeless. She in fact, was a healer and people basked in the warmth she provided. However, a cursed blessing it was, that she be the healer of all except herself for on a sad Saturday morning, wails were heard; she was found dead in her room and on the table, laid a suicide note. She took her own life. Little was it known, that behind that radiating smile, was a soul drowning in a sea of depression, and struggling so hard to survive. No one knew what she was going through; the sicknesses, problems and heartbreaks she faced or; maybe we were too ignorant and selfish to notice that, the warmth she gave was from the fire that consumed her. All she needed was someone to talk to, someone who genuinely cared about her. She was drowning slowly in her sea of depression and all she needed was a lifeguard and when none came, she slowly drowned. Many people out there are like this woman, camouflaging their depression, acting all happy but deep down, they're choking, but why shouldn't they? In a society as selfish and toxic as the one we live in, I'm not least surprised. When people confidently brag about how good they are at being uncaring, why shouldn't suicide be the order of the day? Least I forget, the problem of the present day social media drama. People are out there living fake lives. Acting like life is a bed of roses. They forget that even roses have thorns and quietly the thorns pierce through their sanity. What exactly are we pretending for? Why make other feel inferior with what we posses not? The governments of the world nations are endlessly trying to stop suicide but I feel that, the power to do that, lies in us as a society and individually. Some people are already on a volatile lifeline a little intense crisis, and they vaporize into thin air. All they need is a little care and support, an anchor, a lean on shoulder. A simple act of care goes a long way to save lives. A simple greeting to that homeless man on the street, can go a long way to make him feel relevant. A simple visit to the hospital goes a long way to make the patients feel valid. A short genuine chitchat with that old lonely neighbour of yours goes a long way to resuscitate her a little longer. A little word of encouragement to that hopeless person can go a long way to keep him struggling to survive. Parents, take some time off work to be with your children, have deep talks with them. Show them that you love them, it's not all about making money. Teens and young people, you see that your friend, take some time, have deep talks, its not only about partying and fun. This should be a wakeup call to every member of the society. The moment we decide to start acting selfless, caring and showing love to one another, things will get better and suicide will be eliminated. "The end of the toxic uncaring nature of the people is the beginning of a suicide free society..." - Nwokeji Bianca

I didn't mean to Say the things I did To reject the love you gave I didn't have the strength To try again that day I didn't mean to Take the "easy" way out You see it never has been I feel things many can't grasp Only to carry them deep with- in I didn't mean to Make you worry about me I've tried to carry on Waking each day with reminders That it's only me who's wrong I didn't mean to Leave you feeling guilty For not trying harder to understand I'd hoped to conquer this demon Who's gripped me in his hand I didn't mean to Make you weep with sorrow But I leave you with this promise I will cherish your love and forgiveness When I see you again and kiss - you.

There was no pool and no lifeguard. Well, not literally. The pool was my depression and I while I was drowning to my death; I was rescued by my friend. You'll understand me in a bit. I tried to kill myself once. Actually I didn't intend to kill myself. I just wanted to put myself in so much pain; so much so that I wouldn't feel the terrible heart ache I had at the time. I was so torn one night after I had cried my eyes out in grief and sadness and I just took pills. First, I swallowed 10 pills, and then I tried another 10 immediately. Fortunately, I was online and I saw a friend online and I just told her that I was in so much pain. She immediately came up to my room and saw the state I was in. She was so devastated and I was so scared. I thought I was going to die for sure. She tried to make me induce vomit but I just couldn't. She said we should go to the health center but I was scared. I didn't know what to tell them. It was around 2:00am, so it was a miracle that she was even up. In the end, she just stayed with me until morning. When I slept, she slept and when I stirred, she woke up and asked if I was alright. The next morning I pretty much acted like all was well. I was very ashamed of myself. I felt very stupid and overly dramatic. I was very weak, I didn't eat anything because I didn't have an appetite. Why did I do that to myself? I did it because I was in so much pain; the heartache was just too painful to bear. I felt very worthless and very useless. I felt like a burden, like a cast away. I wouldn't say that my friends weren't there for me, cos they were. When I remember this incident, I am just very grateful to God for sparing my life. I would have brought tears to the eyes of many and hurt a lot of hearts and now that I think about it, it wasn't worth it. I'm sharing my story today to let everyone know that they matter. No matter what you're going through, there's someone that cares. You might have to look a little harder, but people are there. People are always there to help you. You are not alone; you never are, most importantly, God is looking out for you.

Just lost someone dear to me -Ranoldie Love Morty to suicide. She was very dear to me and I just don't want anyone losing or becoming a victim themselves.

Don't blame yourself. No one sees it at first. She's a fifteen-year-old girl on that frozen park bench, sitting on her hands to keep them from getting just as cold as her nose. Your eyes catch sight of the way her hair is dampened and unkempt. Her clothes are torn, hanging off of her body to reveal the story on her skin that she wished no one would ever read. And her face...it's covered in the grime of the city's malice. Did she fall? No one sees it. Her heart is cracked and bloody. The red consequence that pours from it is becoming frozen in these conditions. If she were to tell you that she is growing cold, you would reply you were too. It is, indeed, time for the leaves to take their last leap from the arms of the near-barren trees. Clouds should soon stop crying and instead begin to throw fistfuls of white during their seasonal temper tantrums. But then she'd take you by surprise. She would correct you and say, “No, from the inside. It isn't the outside world causing frost upon my skin. It's my heart, a glacial virus causing my light to fade out into an eternal darkness.” It's all happening so fast in front of everyone's eyes, and still, no one sees it. She didn't fall as once presumed. She was pushed. No one saw it. You didn't either. Not at first. Not until her heart - which had been freezing since he'd first laid a hand on her - cracked. Not until it made a sound so deafening that no one was able to hear another. It was as if lightening struck the ground directly in front of you, and finally, you stopped to pay attention. You were alert. You were looking around for an answer to the question no one has understood: "Why?" And finally, you had the morality to focus on investigating what lay beneath the silence that had followed the explosion of ice from her heart. You realized that she was alone. No mother. No father. No sibling in sight. When you approached her, feet crunching atop the chunks of ice that had flown from her insides like daggers - warnings to stay away - you saw the dirty tears staining her cheeks. You were left to wonder what had happened. Why was she so cold? Maybe she didn't fall. She didn't just stumble because she was clumsy. She was shoved into the calloused, tainted hands of the world. And now you stand in front of her. She sits still on the bench, staring straight ahead with no life left in her eyes. Your chest is level with her face. She doesn't move. You could tell that whoever this girl was is no longer here. A person once known is now a person someone knew. The tears are taking turns rolling down the flushed, red tinted hills named cheeks, but her face is becalmed. A snowflake fallen from the sky lands on her cheek and turns to ice instead of melting away. In a whisper, you ask her what's wrong. She emotionlessly makes eye contact. Your heart clenches and your stomach drops at the visible vacancy inside of her. “I wandered too far,” she replies. “Mother told me the streets weren't safe. She told me not to cross the bridge...I did. I crossed." She looks away again. "I can't go back.” You ask her why. You offer to walk home with her. She could get cleaned up. All better. She'll be fine tomorrow once she gets a new pair of socks and a warm bath. But she rejects you, pushes you away. She says she knows now that strangers are not to be trusted. She can't cross the bridge. For if she does, she will let the wind push her off. She will beg the breeze to be strong enough to cause the ground to disappear from underneath her. She will hit the ground and fall into a pile of beautiful crushed bones and pain. It sounds beautiful to her, anyway. Don't blame yourself. No one sees it at first. Not even you. Maybe you were distracted or just wished to mind your own business. But if you held the candle a little closer, you could see that what she really yearned for was a hand to hold. She was manhandled. Used. Who she used to be was shattered into a thousand pieces and brushed under the rug for no person to ever see again. If they would just look a little closer, they'd see that she is crying out for help. She is not begging to be looked at. She is not begging for the eyes of those around her. She is begging for someone to pull her up from the top before it's too late. She is screaming for someone to toss the rope down before she's stuck in The Pit forever, all alone as she grows colder and colder from the inside out. All alone until she becomes absolutely nothing.

I never thought I would ever need a suicide hotline in my life. I was always the glue of my friends, the ideas of my team and the head of my family. In fact, I was the last person anyone would imagine ending up in a mental ward for an entire weekend, and yet, 1-800-273-8255 saved my life. Sabila, specifically. It had been a hard year. My sister became ill but I thought I had been handling it well. Until one day I had a panic attack that wouldn't stop. I called a hotline and told them I didn't want to do anything, any more, ever again. They helped me get to an ER where I was admitted to a wonderful place where there was art therapy, group sessions and surprisingly normal people. I remember going straight to my room and wanting to go to sleep forever, but I met a girl there who seemed so happy. I didn't understand why she was there but she was my angle. She made sure I ate food, attended classes and even showered. I was scared and thought it was over for me but I realized that this was a place for people to get back on their feet. That breaking doesn't mean it's over. Now I know that it was a new beginning and I will survive.