“I can’t live anymore” I texted. “Get some help <3” they responded.

It was a late night of tears and worries, yet another one of pain and hurt. First time? Not. I have thought of, and planned of suicide since I was four. I’m 37 now. It was the end of excuses, jokes, though, now. That night. Done. Now. I’m done; I had to realize. I sent a message to my brothers; “I want to end my life now. I can’t keep going on”. “Sounds bad. Get some help. <3”. They responded.

Sure, the other one tried calling me twice a few hours after and then asked his fiancé to ask me if I’m good via Whatsapp. “No, but maybe I will be” a reply of the stoic in me gave. A stoic in me that would make the rocks around sigh of envy. Sure, it was nice the fiancé asked, but she was not the one I needed to hear from. She was not the cry for help my text was for. It was not her bad days I needed to hear from, it was mine that I wanted my brothers to care about.

So. Ignoring the fact that my brothers have never really asked me how I’m doing, my friends have sure, “Not good, but I’ll be “has been my go to answer for decades. Sure they know it’s not. My brothers, if any should know it’s not. It’s not like we grew up with caring people in our house. Not like happiness was part of our lives. So. Enter this two weeks of silence. Not a single Are you good, I care for you, or even a hello from them. Not a word. And where am I? In my bathtub, not with water, but with all my pillows and duvets; so damn comfy. Got my drink on; so tipsy. My sedatives beside me. And a knife, on the veins on me. It wasn’t the end I thought it would be, but this can be – sure I thought at least my family would care, at least my brothers? And where’s my mother? Not a sign of care in sight.

This will just be my end.

I slid my wrists, tried it again. Again, again, again. No blood, mere pain. Sharp as knife, but did none. I thought for blood, some pain, more blood, and pain, none. But none. Tried again, none. 

I have the marks, I did try.

By the end of the night I gave up. I took my pillows, not the covers. Landed on my bed, slept an hour, slept a few, more than one. Slept a day, and another.

Alive I think? Day three, maybe ten now, of my death of what could have been. Alive, I think. Recollect the thoughts of; my life, I hope, was worth my brothers. My death? Maybe for others.  Maybe for some.

My arms of blood, veins, of pain. It’s not the hurt I aimed at others. Just wanted to end mine. Oh, right, they did care, with worth a note of “get some help <3” as in “get others to help, we won’t do shit”. …They cared none.

Guess they didn’t hear, nor cared. But. Here I am. Alive. Crying, yes. Yet I am. Here I stand. There was pain carried, of mine, yours and others. The world of hurt and forces of others.

They’ll forever be the ones I love most in the world and would do everything for. But I need a break. A break from their lives and minds in my mind when mine is now ready to end mine.

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