Letters Written in White Read Online Free PDF

overly sugary coffee in hand. Most are dressed for their professional jobs, while I’m dressed for my stay-at-home mom gig wearing yoga pants and a T-shirt. I’m smiling and waving with my truth expertly disguised. If they came any closer, they’d see my coffee is black and my eyes are empty. I’m pretending right along with them. We’re all liars. We’re just pawning our souls to different devils.
    When they’re at school and I’m home alone the whispers get louder and the volume in my head reaches levels that are nearly impossible to turn down. This is my suicide song. It plays loud and proud, thumping and clanging around in even the quietest parts of mind like a metal spoon on pots and pans. I’ve tried everything to switch it off or even turn it down. Sleep is my only true reprieve, so that’s how I spend most of my days. When the kids are home, I’m on life support. Those little humans are my lifesavers. Every single time I think I can’t do it, can’t dance to this torturous song another day, I think of them and I choose to live. The worst part about that is kids should never hold that much responsibility upon their shoulders. They shouldn’t be my lifeline; I should be theirs.
     

     
    The water cascades down my back and the weight of the day slowly climbs up onto my shoulders, and I begin to cry. Everyone’s gone for the day, and this house is now my tomb. I want the sadness to go away. I want the daily dread and despair to stop. Every task at hand is like looking at Mount Everest and being told to climb it. No matter how much I want to climb it, something I can’t explain won’t allow me to. Others see depressed people as weak, and all I want to tell them is they can never imagine the amount of strength it takes for us to do something as simple as getting out of bed in the mornings. Each day when I open my eyes, my heart breaks because it’s still here, this terrifying sadness. And with every new day there are new bouts of guilt and moments of feeling inadequate. When all of the other moms and wives are out volunteering at the schools, or off to their important jobs, I’m here in hiding, wishing I could fit into their world. Once this sickness has leeched from you for so long, you lose all ability to find happiness in anything. Even the most exciting of things garner no interest from you. All of my flaws have become magnified. They have manifested in ways that distort the truth. Where I once saw a little extra weight, I now see fat, fat, and more fat. Where I once preferred to have a smoother complexion, I now see the ugliest skin. Where I felt I needed to improve as a mom and wife or friend, I now can only see a massive failure who will never be good enough.
    I slide to the shower floor, pull my knees in to my chest, and let the tears flow freely. No matter how much I cry or how much I pray for relief from this Hell on Earth, it doesn’t come, and I don’t know how much longer I can live like this. It’s not fair to my family, and it’s becoming too heavy of a burden to continue carrying.
    Water swirls around the drain while dark thoughts swirl around in my head. Suicide doesn’t happen all at once. It starts small. Those early seductive whispers of nagging self-talk, worthlessness, self-hate, fear, or sadness curl into your ears subtly at first. Eventually it mutates into a relentless roar. You really don’t see death coming until suddenly, in one deeply dark moment, you’re face to face with it. Then, being worn down, exhausted from swimming in an ocean of despair, you drop at Death’s feet and surrender. Like a sander, it wears you down until there’s nothing left to fight it off. Soon your once strong oak exterior is worn down into a meager pile of sawdust.
    I wish my husband knew how many times he’s held the dust of me in the palms of his hands, slipping through his fingers. If he only understood how badly I need his understanding, love, and support during these dark times, things