I’m Handing out Sticks
Depression has been beating you up for years. It’s called you ugly, and stupid, and pathetic, and a failure, for so long that you’ve forgotten that it’s wrong. You don’t see good in yourself, and you don’t have any hope. Your thinking about suicide, you have a plan; you just need a reason not to do it.
But you’ve come over to me, and said, “HEY! Staying alive is REALLY HARD right now! Just give me something to fight with! I don’t care if it’s a stick! Give me a stick and I can stay alive!”
Is that helplessness? No, I think that’s incredible. You’re like the marine that’s been trapped for years behind enemy lines, your gun has been taken away, you’re out of ammo, you’re malnourished, and you’ve probably caught some kind of jungle virus that’s making you hallucinate giant spiders.
But you tell me “Give me a stick! I’m not dying out here!”
“A cry for help” Makes it sound like I’m supposed to take pity on you. But you don’t need my pity. This isn’t pathetic. This is the will to survive. With NO hope, running on NOTHING, you’re ready to cut through a hundred miles of hostile jungle with nothing but a stick, if that’s what it takes to get to safety.
All I’m doing is handing out sticks. You’re the one staying alive.
I saw this on a therapist wall and wrote down so I could remember in troubled times that I knew would plague me.
I'm running out of sticks.