Sally S.
Photography by Jessica Pentel
Dear Reader,
Sally’s letter describes her personal journey with Depression and Suicidal Ideation. We advise those who may be triggered by these topics to exercise caution when reading this letter. If you are struggling please reach out to our Peer Contacts or one of the resources listed on our Resources Page.
Sincerely, The IfYoureReadingThis Team
It was just after my fifteenth birthday that I sat hunched over my laptop in bed mustering up the courage to google painless ways to die. When I finally pressed enter, the first result that popped up was the National Suicide Hotline. I immediately slammed my laptop shut after I saw these words. My heart raced and tears streamed down my face as I realized what I had just done. I was scared. I was ashamed. But above all else, I was angry. I was furious that this was happening to me and I couldn’t understand why or what I had done to deserve it. My anger led me to refuse to acknowledge the reality of what I had done. I resolved to bury these uncontrollable feelings and urges as deep inside myself as I possibly could, and I did just that for the next five years.
I wish I could tell you details about this five-year period of my life, but I can’t. These years are defined only by hazy memories and an overwhelming sense of numbness. A numbness that led me to accept the fact that my life would never be anything more than meaningless. I welcomed the thought of death and even begged that it would take me away from myself. While I couldn’t bring myself to act upon these feelings, I let them fester until they consumed my mind.
In doing so, my depression became comfortable. It was there with me when I woke up in the morning, when I was with the people I loved, and it was with me as I held myself in bed at night. In some ways, it was my only friend. The only thing that I felt truly understood me was my depression and I was terrified of losing it in fear of what I might find instead. Above all else, I feared that I was broken. To justify my silence, I convinced myself that my brain simply wasn’t wired to feel happiness and instead was only meant to bring me sadness. I convinced myself that everyone felt this way and that there was nothing I could do to save myself.
While I would never have admitted it at the time, I was desperate for someone to notice me and to take away my pain. But no one did. No one came to take my hand and drag me out of the swamp I had created for myself, so I stayed there. I stayed there until I finally mustered up the courage to vocalize my thoughts this past October, just after my twentieth birthday.
I never would have done so if a friend of mine didn’t force me to, and while I was angry at the time, today I am grateful. Her reaction showed me that my feelings were not normal and in giving me a space to express myself, she allowed me to share some of the weight I had been carrying around for the past five years. I was instantly relieved and gave myself permission to accept the help that she was offering me. The same help that I had refused to offer myself for so many years.
A few weeks later, I started therapy at CAPS and was diagnosed with depression and anxiety. I was put on antidepressants and slowly but surely, I began to see parts of myself that I hadn’t seen in five years. I remember crying as unfamiliar emotions returned to my body, and for the first time, I understood what it meant to cry happy tears. For the first time, I understood what it meant to want to be alive.
While some days are still darker than others, my depression is no longer my friend. Instead, it is an unwelcome visitor that I refuse to let poison my thoughts. In naming and recognizing my mental illness, it has become manageable rather than inescapable. I don’t know if I would still be here if it weren’t for this friend who extended a lifeline to me, but I’m thankful that I am.
I want to be angry at this fifteen-year-old girl for choosing silence, but I can’t be. I just want her to know that I see her, and I forgive her. Above all else, I want her to know that it's okay to ask for help instead of suffering in silence. And if you’re reading this, I want you to know that you don’t have to suffer in silence either.
Sally S., University of Virginia ‘23
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