Quietly Alive

Carrying pain, surviving quietly, and holding onto what’s hers.

the world felt heavy and loud and silent all at once. She carried hopelessness, anger, and numbness like a coat she couldn’t take off. Every day felt like a test she wasn’t prepared for, in classrooms that didn’t care, with friends who barely remembered her, and a father who mocked her pain.

She tried to survive, hiding bottles, hiding feelings, hiding herself. Each act of rebellion, each mistake, each secret became another brick in the wall between her and the world. She wanted to scream, to be seen, to matter �" but somehow the only thing that stayed consistent was the emptiness.

She woke up that morning feeling the world spin around her. Her legs gave way, and she stumbled, gripping walls to stay upright.

He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the car. She felt the motion, the panic, the heat of his hands �" and wondered how the same person could feel so protective yet so terrifying. Bottles stacked like trophies no one would ever see. The burn in her throat felt easier to manage than the burn in her chest.

When she swallowed the pills, it wasn’t loud or dramatic. It was tired. It was quiet.

The hospital smelled like disinfectant and plastic mattresses. The nurses rotated in and out like shifts on a clock. Some were kind. Most were not.

Her dad came to visit.

He laughed.

Told her it wouldn’t have worked anyway.

She didn’t cry.

She just added it to the list of things she wouldn’t talk about again.

And yet, she had survived. Somehow. Even when she made choices she hated herself for, even when she hurt others or was hurt in ways she couldn’t yet understand, she was still standing. Still observing. Still learning.

She had grown fast, too fast. The world forced her into a skin she wasn’t ready to wear, but she wore it anyway. Every scar, every tear, every whispered apology to herself or to someone else had made her who she was.

And for the first time in a long time, she wondered �" not about what had broken her, not about what she had lost �" but about what she could still hold onto. What parts of herself were hers alone. What could be hers if she dared to reach for them.

Author's Note

Warning: talks about suicide