What No One Told Me About Suicidal Ideation

TW: Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Attempts, Childhood Trauma

This post contains honest reflections about suicidal ideation and past suicide attempts. Please read with care.

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You can be standing in the middle of your kitchen, pouring coffee, thinking about your to-do list… and suddenly wonder what would happen if you just didn’t exist. No warning, no meltdown. Just that quiet, familiar thought: I don’t want to do this anymore. Not because of one big thing, but because of everything. The weight. The noise. The pretending. It doesn’t always look like a crisis; sometimes it looks like functionality. Smiling, existing, answering emails. But inside, you’re unraveling. And if you’ve ever felt that, if you’re feeling it now, you’re not broken. You’re not attention-seeking. You’re not alone. This is the part nobody talks about. So I will.

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Suicidal ideation isn’t just a crisis; it can be a quiet, chronic presence. It shaped my life in ways most people never saw.

The first time I had suicidal thoughts, I was around 8 or 9.The first time I tried to act on them, I was 10.

That day, I had just found out I wasn’t allowed to go to church camp; a tiny moment from the outside, but at the time, it shattered me. I lived in the middle of nowhere, isolated; no school, no friends. Church was my only way out, and even that was suddenly taken.

I cried in my room like I had so many times before, but this time, I grabbed a sheet and I wrapped it around my neck.

I pulled.

I’d tried this before, experimenting, really, trying to figure out how much pressure it would take to pass out. But this time wasn’t a test, this time, I was ready.

Then my mom walked in.

I was hospitalized.

But no one really talked to me about what I was feeling. Instead, they just put me on meds for anxiety and sleep. I was 10 years old.

Hospitalization didn’t help.

Therapy didn’t touch the suicidal thoughts, because even saying the words “I think about dying” made you a risk.

If you were too honest, you got locked in longer, so I learned to hide it.

But the thoughts were always there.

Every. Day.

Even on good days, even surrounded by people.

When I was 20, I overdosed. I’d had a hard day and I swallowed an entire bottle of anxiety meds.

I started foaming and vomiting. My husband found me and rushed me to meet the EMTs.

When we got to the hospital, a nurse rolled me into the elevator, just her and me. I had charcoal running down my face, I expected judgment.

Instead, she asked me why.

And then she told me something I never forgot:

“Six months ago, I was where you are. It gets better.”

She was the first person to speak to me like I was human. Not a psych patient, not a liability, just a hurting person.

The thoughts didn’t leave.

They got more creative.

More frequent.

I didn’t want to die, I just didn’t see another way out.

The voice in my head became a constant companion, whispering:

“You should just end it.”

“They’ll get over it.”

“This would be easier.”

In 2023, after a fight with my husband, I grabbed a gun and laid in my closet, sobbing.

The only reason I didn’t pull the trigger?

Easter was a few days away and I didn’t want to ruin it for my family. That’s how small the thread was that held me.

Later that year, on my birthday, I made a plan.

Six more months.

If things weren’t better by then, I’d go through with it.

I picked a date, I picked the method. I picked a time that wouldn’t interfere with any birthdays or holidays.

And for the first time, I felt relief.

Not fear.

Not sadness.

Just… peace.

That’s what made it dangerous, that terrifying sense of calm.

A few months later, someone said to me:

“I admire how you’ve stepped back from the family. It seems like it really helped your mental health.”

They meant well, but it hit me like a slap.

I hadn’t “stepped back.” I was unraveling, they just didn’t see it.

At that point, I had already picked my death date.

I wasn’t healing.

I was waiting.

The comment made me feel invisible, like my pain didn’t register.

And weirdly… that invisibility helped me realize something:

I didn’t need them to heal.

Not in a “screw them” way, but in a liberating way.

A reclaiming way.

I could still find peace, on my terms.

That’s when things started shifting.

One night, I was doom-scrolling on TikTok (of all places) and came across a video on the Law of Attraction, then the Gateway Project, then consciousness theories, and something… clicked.

I binged everything I could about the mind, about reality, about trauma and healing.

I got obsessed with understanding the brain.

I learned that I am not my thoughts, I learned how to observe them instead of believing them.

And for the first time in my life, I had entire days where I didn’t think about dying.

Even now, those thoughts still sneak in sometimes. I’ll be driving and randomly hear:

“You should just veer off the road.”

But now, they’re just thoughts.

I don’t attach.

I nod at them like a cloud passing by.

They don’t own me.

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Here’s what I wish someone told me earlier:

Suicidal ideation doesn’t always come from crisis, it can show up in the middle of a normal day.

You can live with those thoughts for years and still get better.

The key isn’t fighting or suppressing them, it’s separating from them.

You are not broken.

You are not dangerous.

You are not alone.

And yes, even people who look “fine” on the outside can be unraveling on the inside.

If you’re in that place right now, where you feel calm about the idea of not being here anymore, I see you.

That voice telling you there’s no other way out?

It’s lying.

Don’t fight it, get curious about it. Watch it like a stranger passing on a street.

You are not that voice.

You’re the one listening.

You’re the one still here.

And that matters more than you know.

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Closing Note:

I’ve lived with suicidal ideation for over 20 years.

I acted on it three times.

But today, I can say this honestly:

Life feels worth it now.

Not all the time, not in a “love and light” way.

But in a real, grounded, human way.

And if you’re not there yet, you still deserve to stick around to see what it can become.

You don’t have to fix everything today, you don’t even have to feel hopeful.

You just have to stay.

Because healing doesn’t always start with joy; sometimes it starts with exhaustion, honesty, and the tiniest spark of curiosity:

What if there’s more than this?

There is.

So breathe.

Rest.

And let this be your proof:

Even from the darkest thoughts, a new life can grow.