Where Love Heals

You’re thinking about it.
Ending your life.
Stopping the pain.

You tell yourself it would make things easier—for everyone. That people wouldn’t have to deal with your mess anymore. That the weight you carry wouldn’t spill over onto the people you love.

You’re tired. Not just “I need sleep” tired.
Soul-tired. Bone-deep exhausted.

Tired of fighting demons that don’t clock out.
Tired of waking up and feeling it all still there.
Tired of pretending you’re okay when you’re not even close.

Every day is a fight. Every night is worse.
You wear the smile. You say the right things.
And inside? You’re screaming.

No one hears it.
Not your friends.
Not your family.
Maybe not even the people who are supposed to help.

You’ve been hurt in ways that don’t just fade.
You feel as if someone cracked open your chest and ripped your heart out it.

And somehow… you’re supposed to be okay now.

You’re supposed to be “better.”

But you’re not.

People don’t see it. They don’t feel what you’re carrying.
They hand you advice like it’s simple:
“Go to therapy.”
“Take some meds.”
“Move on.”

Like it’s that easy.

And after a while it starts to feel like— Just fix it already, so we don’t have to look at your pain.

So your mind goes there.
To the one escape that feels certain.
Quick. Final. Quiet.

No more noise.
No more memories on repeat.
No more heaviness in your chest.

Just… nothing.

And you sit there thinking,
Give me one real reason to stay.

And all you hear back is silence.

Alone.
Lost.
Drained past the point of empty.

A part is you died that day your life became a before and after.
And you wonder if being completely gone would hurt less than this.

And maybe… you’ve already tried.
Or come close.

But something—something small—kept you here.
And somehow, you’re still reading.

So hear this. Not as a lecture. Not as a cliché.
Just… from one human being to another:

I know that level of tired.
The kind that makes you question everything.
The kind that convinces you there’s no way out.

But the lie hiding in all of this is that you don’t matter.
That you’re too much.
That the world would be better without you.

That’s not truth. That’s pain talking.

Because people like you—the ones who feel this deeply, who fight this hard—
you’re not weak.

You’re overwhelmed.
You’re wounded.
You’re carrying more than you were ever meant to carry alone.

And yeah… you can’t keep doing this alone.

You’re not supposed to.

You don’t need someone to magically fix everything.
You need someone to sit in it with you.
To stay when it’s messy.
To remind you—over and over—there is still something in you worth fighting for.

Even if you can’t see it right now.

Especially then.

So don’t disappear. Not today.

Stay. Even if it’s just for the next hour.
Stay, even if the only reason is “I don’t know… but I will.”

Reach for someone.
Text one person.
Say, “I’m not okay.”

You don’t have to explain everything.
You just have to not do this alone.

Because you matter.
Not in a vague, distant way—
in a real, human, right-now way.

And even if your mind is telling you otherwise,
you being here still matters.

So stay.

Just stay.

I did and I think I was meant to all along.

JMS