Seen / Unseen

I was stable.
Stable.
The word everyone worships like it’s salvation, like it isn’t a tightrope over a black hole with Walgreens pharmacy receipts as the safety net.
And then—click.
Brain chemistry roulette, and suddenly I’m losing again in a casino where the house always wins and the house is my skull.

You know what’s cute?
Building a life you love and then waking up one day and not wanting any of it.
Having food made for me every day and staring at it like it’s a threat.
Like nourishment is too intimate a request.
Like hunger is easier than hope.
Going to bed at 4pm not because I’m tired but because consciousness is a hostile environment.

They say, “I’m here if you ever want to talk or take a walk,”
like it’s a blessing,
like it’s friendship,
like they won’t ghost me the second I hint I’m drowning.

They don’t mean talk.
they mean: perform resilience for me so I can feel generous.
they mean: don’t bleed on my time.
And when I do speak—when I crack open, quiet, careful, trembling, just looking for one human echo—they read it, leave me on seen.
Like empathy was optional and I failed the vibe check.

Do you know what passive suicidality sounds like?
It isn’t dramatic.
It’s a whisper that moves into your frontal lobe and starts rearranging the furniture.
A roommate that lights scented candles and leaves the door open just to tempt the winter in.

But I don’t tell anyone.
I laminate safety plans instead of asking to be held.
I white‑knuckle through “Have a great day!” while my brain quietly drafts a will.
I save lives for a living and eat lunch alone like a ghost who hasn’t realized she died at her own locker.

I don’t want rescuing.
I have a psychiatrist.
I don’t want praise for surviving.
I have a therapist.
I just want someone to sit with me without needing me to be grateful for the company.

I want someone to say
“Hey, do you want fries?”
and mean
“I noticed you haven’t tasted joy in a week and I want to share mine.”

I don’t want to be the emergency.
I want to be the friend.
I want to exist without auditioning.

Some days, staying alive isn’t noble.
It’s not brave or cinematic.
It’s dragging myself forward by the hair, snarling at the dark like I owe it money.

Don’t call it strength.
Strength suggests choice.
This is compulsion—a stubborn pulse, a refusal to vanish cleanly.
And maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t have to be this savage, this teeth‑bared survival… if someone gave enough of a damn to be a friend.
If “I’m here if you ever need to talk” wasn’t code for “please don’t actually need anything from me.”
Maybe I wouldn’t have to claw my way through the quiet if anyone bothered to sit in it with me.

If staying alive didn’t feel like a solo sport played in an empty stadium with nobody watching but the part of me that would gladly see me lose.

I don’t rise.
I don’t bloom.
I don’t transcend.
I just persist.
And on some days, that’s not hope.
It’s spite wearing skin.