What They Don't Tell You (During Suicide Prevention Month)

What They Don't Tell You (During Suicide Prevention Month)

Trigger/Content Warning: 

The following piece includes discussions of suicide that may be triggering to some. No graphic details are given. 

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Suicide Prevention Month

September arrives, and suddenly timelines fill with hashtags, statistics, and reminders that “you are not alone.” Suicide Prevention/Awareness Month matters. It opens conversations that are often silenced. It saves lives.

But here’s what they don’t tell you: both trauma and hope strike like lightning. They don’t arrive gently. They tear through you – sudden, searing, impossible to ignore. At the point of impact, they leave scars like Lichtenberg figures: branching marks of electricity etched into memory and body at the point that they entered the body. You carry them forever, whether or not anyone else can see them.

Awareness campaigns speak in slogans, but living with survival doesn’t feel neat. It feels like learning to live in a body and spirit that have been struck and changed by storms.

They don’t tell you what survival really feels like. Not the slogans, not the posters, not the awareness month campaigns. They don’t tell you about the marks left behind.

The Aftermath

What they don’t tell you is that surviving the storm is only the beginning. After the lightning fades, you’re left standing in the wreckage, unsure of what comes next. Survival isn’t a neat finish line. It’s learning to build again in the ruins, to keep going even when your body shakes with exhaustion, to imagine a life beyond the crisis when imagining feels impossible.

For me, the aftermath was lonelier than I ever expected. At first people reached out, but as time stretched on and I wasn’t getting “better,” they stopped calling, stopped asking, and I disappeared quietly from their lives.  Then I retreated further and further into myself and the world carried on as if my absence were a drop in an endless ocean. I was a house with the lights out—empty windows no one thought to peer into and the silence stretched, unbroken by knocks or voices calling my name. There were no insistent hands reminding me I was worth saving. I learned what it felt like to vanish into silence, and to realize that sometimes, no one comes.

So I bent low, put my head down, and began the work of saving myself. Not in a single moment, but in slow, stubborn days that stretched into months. It has been more than a year of gathering what was left of me, of stitching my own edges together, of choosing, again and again, to remain.

And what I know now is this: there isn’t always someone to swoop in. But that is not the end of the world. It is not the end of me. Because I have learned I can be my own proof of survival. Whether accompanied or alone, I can steady myself. I can stay.

And then, eventually, love did arrive. Not in sweeping gestures, but in quiet offerings I was finally steady enough to recognize: a friend’s hand, a kind word, fresh mint from the garden when I’m nauseous, someone seeing me without asking me to perform. It was this quiet kind of love. It wasn’t fireworks or grand gestures—it was tenderness, persistence, reminders that my existence left a mark. I wasn’t invisible. And maybe the most important part was this: it wasn’t just about others believing I mattered. It was about me starting to believe it, too. Support did come—but by then, I knew I could survive without it.

The Things Left Out

They don’t tell you how exhausting survival can be. How messy healing really is. How some days, staying alive doesn’t feel triumphant, it just feels like dragging yourself from one breath to the next.

Survival doesn’t always feel like triumph. The marks we carry are proof not of neat recovery, but of the fact that we’re still here.

They don’t tell you how anniversaries of pain live inside your body, sparking like aftershocks of a storm you thought had passed. How even joyful milestones can ache with the grief of a younger you who never thought you’d make it here.

They don’t tell you that when lightning struck—when trauma carved itself into you—the scars didn’t fade. They became part of your map. And when hope struck, it left marks too. Those marks aren’t always comforting. Sometimes they sting when you trace them. Sometimes they remind you of pain as much as survival: reminders that you survived the impossible, reminders you might not always welcome but that tether you still.

The Messiness of Survival

For years, I never made plans for the future because I didn’t believe I’d live long enough to need them. My only plans were safety/crisis plans: how to make it through the night, the week, the storm. But then came the shift. I remember staring at a blank journal page when the words five years from now slipped into my mind. It startled me. For so long, I couldn’t picture myself beyond the next day, the next crisis. And yet, I let the thought stay. What if I did make it five years? The page filled with dreams: art, a home of my own, softness I’d never been given but wanted to give myself.

That day, I understood: planning wasn’t arrogance. It was an act of faith in my survival. A quiet insistence that I would live long enough for those dreams to matter.

Reframing Scars

People want polished stories. They want scars to fade, pain to turn into lessons, and survival to shine like hope. But what they don’t tell you is that survival is also numbness, anger, exhaustion.

The scars are not shameful. They are evidence: Yes, this happened. Yes, it hurt. Yes, I survived it. I am finally claiming my pain as my own. For years, I let others tell my story—those who dismissed it, denied it, told me to “move on” before I was ready. But claiming my pain meant reclaiming my voice. It meant saying: my past is mine to honor, not to erase.

Claiming my pain does not mean letting it define me forever. It means holding it as part of my truth, acknowledging it as the soil from which I grew. Recently, I was talking with someone and they said “you know, I of course want to honor where you are now, but I also want to honor where you were a couple years ago and that you did what you needed to do to survive – I don’t want to just erase that.”  I am holding onto compassion for my younger self who managed to survive awful, excruciating things and for my current and future self who wants to survive differently, dare I say even thrive. My scars belong to me, not to the people who caused them. And because they are mine, I get to decide what to do with them. I can carry them differently. I can weave them into art, into boundaries, into revolution.

And maybe the most radical act of revenge, after everything I’ve endured, is to fall in love with myself. For so long, I believed I was too much, not enough, broken beyond repair. To love myself now is to refuse those lies. To insist that my softness, my joy, my imperfect humanity are worth cherishing. Revenge not through bitterness, but through reclamation.

Softness and Joy

What they don’t tell you is how terrifying softness can be after years of survival. Survival made me sharp-edged, sarcastic, armored, ready for impact. Vulnerability felt dangerous. Every time I let my guard down, I paid a price. So when softness shows up now—rest taken without apology, tears I don’t swallow—it feels risky, like standing unarmored in a world that once demanded I fight to exist.

And yet, that’s what makes it revolutionary. Softness insists I am more than survival mode.

Creation became part of that softness. When illness and trauma stole my words, art became a lifeline. Linework, color, and shapes carried what I couldn’t say out loud. Every drawing was proof: you were here, you made something out of chaos, you survived.

Joy, too, became resistance. For years, despair felt safer, predictable, familiar. Joy felt dangerous, like glass too fragile to hold. To laugh, to hope, to want more—it all meant risking loss. But I’m learning that joy isn’t fragile. It’s resilient. It leaves an imprint, reminding me I can feel it again. Joy demanded I believe in possibility, that I deserved more than endurance. That I could build a life where joy wasn’t an accident but a birthright.

The Truth I’ve Learned

What they don’t tell you is that survival doesn’t mean being cured. Healing isn’t linear; there are still bad nights, still scars that ache. But survival does mean I get to decide what comes next.

I am unlearning the belief that my worth is measured by exhaustion, usefulness, or overcommitment. Success now looks like resting without shame, setting boundaries without apology, and choosing projects that nourish me instead of drain me. Some days, success is as simple as being alive.

I am learning to trust myself. To make plans for my own future, messy and imperfect as it is. Every birthday, every milestone is a victory I once thought I’d never see. At twenty-five, I felt it in my bones: I wasn’t supposed to be here, but I am.

I’ve lived through years when I didn’t want to be here. And if I’m honest, Suicide Prevention//Awareness Month can feel like a spotlight shining too brightly on wounds still tender. But it has also taught me something: silence is heavy, but sharing lightens it.

Survival is not always a victory march. Sometimes it is standing in the charred ground after the storm, tracing the branching scars the lightning left behind, realizing that even changed, even scarred, you are alive. And that matters.

What I Want You to Know

  • If you are struggling, I don’t want to hand you slogans. I want to tell you the truth:

  • The scars remain. The storms leave their marks. But they are not the end of the story.

  • What they don’t tell you is that in the aftermath of survival, you can learn to live. You can learn to love yourself. You can build softness, joy, and art out of ruins. You can claim your pain as your own, and still choose to write a different ending.

  • Survival doesn’t mean erasing the past. It means honoring it as part of your truth, and still daring to imagine more.

  • The scars remain, but so does my softness. My joy. My future.

  • And maybe the most radical act of all is this: I am learning to live. I am learning to love myself.

  • Recovery is more like weather than a timeline—shifting, unpredictable, and still real.

  • Your existence does not weigh too heavy to be held.

  • Survival can be jagged, scarred, relentless—and still sacred.

  • The marks left on you by both trauma and hope are proof you lived through the impact.

You don’t have to make survival beautiful. You only have to keep breathing. That is enough.

 

✨ Thank you for reading.
I write about softness, survival, and the messy art of being human. You can find more reflections, free resources, and my art here on my website.

With care,
 Ezra (EGW) 🌿

 

Journaling Prompts

  • What “lightning strikes” have left lasting marks on you—trauma or hope?

  • Write about the scars you carry, visible or invisible, and what they remind you of.

  • If you could trace your survival like a lightning pattern on a map, what would it look like?

 

Resources

If you’re in the U.S. and need immediate support, you can dial or text 988 for the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. If you’re outside the U.S., find international hotlines at https://findahelpline.com.

Below is a more extensive list of resources. 

📞 Hotlines

Immediate support when you’re in crisis.

  • 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline (U.S.) → dial/text 988 | 24/7 crisis support for anyone in the U.S.

  • Crisis Text Line (U.S./Canada/UK/Ireland) → text HOME to 741741 | Free 24/7 text-based crisis support.

  • Samaritans (UK & ROI) → call 116 123 | Confidential emotional support available any time.

  • Lifeline (Australia) → 13 11 14 | Crisis support and suicide prevention services.

  • Kids Help Phone (Canada) → 1-800-668-6868 or text CONNECT to 686868 | Support line for youth and young adults.

  • iCALL (India) → +91 9152987821 | Professional, confidential counseling by phone or email.

  • Befrienders International (Global) → befrienders.org | Network of volunteer crisis centers worldwide.

  • findahelpline.com | Global searchable database of hotlines.

 

 

☎️ Non-Carceral Hotlines

Support lines that won’t contact police without your consent.

  • Trans Lifeline (U.S./Canada) → 1-877-565-8860 | Run by and for trans people; no non-consensual active rescue.

  • Call BlackLine (U.S.) → 1-800-604-5841 | Peer support for BIPOC, LGBTQ+, and disabled folks.

  • Project LETS Peer Crisis Line (U.S.) → letspeercounseling.org | Peer-led mental health and crisis support.

  • Wildflower Peer Support Line (Vermont, U.S.) → 1-833-733-7526 | Survivor- and peer-run alternative crisis line.

  • Never Use Alone (U.S.) → 1-800-484-3731 | Support for people using drugs; emergency help without police.

 

 

🌱 Peer Supports

For when you need someone who’s been there, too.

  • 7 Cups → 7cups.com | Online peer listeners and chat rooms for support.

  • Warmline Directory (U.S.) → warmline.org | Find non-crisis peer support lines by state.

  • Peer Support Canada → peersupportcanada.ca | Peer-led mental health support across Canada.

  • Hearing Voices Network (International) → hearing-voices.org | Support for people who hear voices, see visions, or experience unusual perceptions.

  • Intentional Peer Support (Global) → intentionalpeersupport.org | Training and resources for peer-to-peer mental health support.

  • SANE Peer Support (Australia) → sane.org | Online forums and groups for people living with mental illness.

 

🤝 Community Care

Grassroots + mutual aid resources that remind us support is collective.

  • Mutual Aid Hub (Global) → mutualaidhub.org | Directory of local mutual aid groups worldwide.

  • Fireweed Collective (U.S.) → fireweedcollective.org | Peer support + political education around mental health.

  • Healing Justice Lineages (Global) → healingjusticelineages.org | Directory of organizations rooted in healing justice.

  • Solidarity Economy Association (UK/Global) → solidarityeconomy.coop | Resources for building cooperative, care-based economies.

  • Local grassroots groups → Food pantries, bail funds, mutual aid networks.

 

📖 Education + Prevention

Resources to learn, unlearn, and build care before crisis.

  • Mental Health America (U.S.) → mhanational.org | Free screenings, education, and advocacy tools.

  • Mind (UK) → mind.org.uk | Mental health info and support services.

  • Active Minds (U.S.) → activeminds.org | Mental health education and peer networks for young people.

  • NowMattersNow (U.S.) → nowmattersnow.org | Coping skills for suicidal thoughts, DBT-based.

  • Black Dog Institute (Australia) → blackdoginstitute.org.au | Research-driven mental health education.

  • CAMH (Canada) → camh.ca | Mental health research, clinical resources, and prevention.

💔 Sexual Assault + IPV Supports

  • RAINN (U.S.) → 1-800-656-4673 or rainn.org
     Largest U.S. anti-sexual violence organization; 24/7 confidential support for survivors of sexual assault.

  • National Domestic Violence Hotline (U.S.) → 1-800-799-7233 or text “START” to 88788
     24/7 support, safety planning, and resources for anyone experiencing intimate partner violence.

  • Love Is Respect (U.S.) → 1-866-331-9474 or text “LOVEIS” to 22522
     Youth-focused hotline for healthy relationships, dating abuse prevention, and crisis support.

  • Women’s Aid (UK) → womensaid.org.uk
     National domestic violence support org offering helplines, live chat, and safe housing resources.

  • Refuge (UK) → 0808 2000 247
     24-hour helpline and services for women and children experiencing domestic abuse.

  • Safe Ireland (Ireland) → safeireland.ie
     National network for survivors of domestic abuse, with emergency services and local support.

  • WESNET / 1800RESPECT (Australia) → 1800 737 732
     24/7 national hotline for sexual assault, domestic, and family violence support.

  • AVFT (France) → avft.org
     Association against violence toward women in the workplace, offering legal + psychological support.

 

♿ Accessibility-Focused

Disability + chronic illness–centered supports.

  • Autistic Self Advocacy Network (U.S.) → autisticadvocacy.org | Disability justice org run by and for autistic people.

  • DREDF (U.S.) → dredf.org | Disability civil rights legal and policy advocacy.

  • Sins Invalid (U.S.) → sinsinvalid.org | Disability justice + art collective centering BIPOC and queer voices.

  • NCIL (U.S.) → ncil.org | Advocacy by people with disabilities, for independent living.

  • Disability Justice Network of Ontario (Canada) → djno.ca | Grassroots disability justice organizing.

  • Disability Rights UK → disabilityrightsuk.org | National org led by disabled people, for disabled people.

 

🏳️⚧️ Queer + Trans Supports

Affirming resources made for our community.

  • Trevor Project (U.S.) → 1-866-488-7386 | 24/7 support for LGBTQ+ youth.

  • Trans Lifeline (U.S./Canada) → 1-877-565-8860 | Run by and for trans people, no non-consensual intervention.

  • Switchboard LGBT+ Helpline (UK) → 0300 330 0630 | Confidential LGBTQ+ support line.

  • LGBT National Help Center (U.S.) → 1-888-843-4564 | Hotline and online chat for LGBTQ+ people of all ages.

  • Minus18 (Australia) → minus18.org.au | LGBTQ+ youth advocacy and community programs.

  • ILGA World (Global) → ilga.org | International LGBTQ+ advocacy and resource network.

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