Kill Me Yourself, You Coward

A letter to my suicidal brain.

Dear brain,

Ever since I was 12, you’ve told me that I wasn’t worthy. That I wasn’t good enough. That I should kill myself. So, when I was 12, I sort of tried. They pulled me out of school for a while.

The doctor said I had depression and put me on some pills. It didn’t help. The voices got louder, more varied, telling me to kill other people and myself. The doctor said I was bipolar and put me on different pills.

All throughout my teens, you whispered into my ear that I should die. “Kill yourself,” you said. “You’d be better off dead. Nobody would miss you.”

They would miss me, I contended. My parents were fighting to keep me stable. My friends cared about my wellbeing. My teachers appreciated my contributions to their classes.

“All lies,” you said. “Nobody would miss you.”

I persevered, however, and made it to college. You changed tactics. “Go off your meds,” you whispered. “They make you feel awful. You’ll feel so much better when you do.”

Trying to ignore you had worn me down. Okay, I conceded, I’ll go off my meds. What’s the worst that could happen?

A lot of bad stuff happened. My doctor scolded me, as did my parents. I went on some new meds. These stuck pretty well, and you quit whispering so loud.

Recently, you’ve come back. At the most inopportune moments, you’ll whisper your siren song to me again. “Kill yourself. You’re better off dead. Nobody will miss you.”

I’m better prepared this time. I’ve learned and grown. I remember what happened the last time I listened to you. It didn’t go well. I won’t listen to you again.

“Kill yourself,” you say. Kill me yourself, you coward, I retort. I’m not listening to a brain that won’t even do its own dirty work.

You whisper these things in my head, but you can’t even do it yourself. You control me, but you can’t make me do it. You fight with me as you fight with yourself.

The thing is, I know that you are hurting. You are an anxious, angry, depressed, bipolar bundle of nerves. There is something that misfires in you that causes you to be this way. You’re wired to do it, and you hate that. You can’t stop yourself.

You know, deep down, that something inside of you doesn’t produce enough of a certain chemical, and that causes you so much pain. So, you take that pain out on me, and by extension on yourself. You whisper that it would be better off if I killed myself because that would end both of our pain.

I am greater than the sum of my parts. You are but one part of my sum total, and you can’t even agree with yourself. The half of you that wants it all to end has to contend with your other half and all the rest of me. We don’t tolerate that stuff anymore. We’re stronger than that. I’m stronger than that.

I know that I have to live with a brain that wants me dead. You’re angry, depressed, anxious, bipolar, and you want me dead. But you also don’t. You hurt, and you want to be soothed. The half of you that wants me dead also wants it to all be okay. You don’t want to die as much as you want the pain to go away. Death is just the quick way.

There are no easy solutions, however, and I have to remind you of that. When you whisper at me, I respond that it’s going to be okay. When you’re screaming at me, I cover my ears and repeat that mantra: it’s going to be okay. Eventually, you listen. Eventually, you calm down.

I’m stuck with you, and you’re stuck with me, and I’m okay with that. You’re not a bad brain. You let me write lots of things and do good work. You give me the energy to create and to love and to be present in the world. When it all comes down to it, you’re really not so bad, and you’re getting better by the day.

When you whisper bad things at me, I know how to deal with it. Lately, you’ve been experimenting with whispering good things at me, and I appreciate it. Life is all about growth, and you can grow too.

Let’s keep growing together.

Sincerely,

Matthew Maniaci