Suicide was not a surprise: I planned it.
Photo by Nick Fewings on Unsplash
Content Warning — This work includes brief descriptions of self-harm and suicide. If you or someone you love needs help, reach out to your local crisis center (National Suicide Prevention Lifeline +1 800 273–8255).
The first night in the little yellow house, sleep eluded me. Freight trains thundered past our window, each one an intruder rattling through old rotten windows and into the silence of my sleeplessness. My wife slept beside me, her pregnant belly rising and falling, a quiet reminder of the life we’d embarked upon. We’d moved across the country, bought a fixer-upper that demanded more time, money and energy than we had to give, and I was wrestling with my fledgling startup. All at once.
By day, I juggled calls with contractors who spoke in evasions and investors who wanted assurances I didn’t have. By night, I navigated narrow pathways between unpacked boxes, careful not to disturb my wife. The air inside felt thick, weighted with the history of the old battlefield the house sat upon. During those lonely sleepless nights I imagined the battles that took place in the fields around that house: their horror seemed to seep its way into my restless dreams.
My wife and I hadn’t been intimate in months. Her pregnancy brought discomfort, and I told myself my needs could wait. I cooked nutrient-rich meals, massaged her swollen feet, and swallowed the growing tension that settled in my chest.
One afternoon, sunlight sliced through the dusty blinds as another train’s rumble grew louder. A tightness gripped my throat — a familiar sense of entrapment. The walls inched closer, and I realized I hadn’t exhaled fully in weeks.
A passage from a book I’d read resurfaced in my mind: The protagonist struggles with profound shame and finds solace in the idea of suddenly disappearing — she stands trembling in the flashing lights of the railway crossing waiting for an approaching train to end her life. The imagery lingered in my mind, it wasn’t the first time I had thought about suicide, the idea oddly comforting. What would it feel like to let go of all this weight?
I shook my head to dispel the notion, but the pressure was relentless. The startup consumed me, the renovation bled us dry, fatherhood loomed, and the contractor’s dodges hinted at betrayal. Sleep deprivation blurred reality’s edges. It was all too much for me, and I was ashamed that I couldn’t cope on my own.
With the intention to step outside for a few deep breaths of fresh air, I moved toward the front door. Instead, my legs buckled, and I collapsed onto the cold kitchen floor. The tiles pressed into my skin, grounding me. I curled into myself as the old house’s creaks faded along with everything else around me. The numbness was my refuge, and my prison.
Soft footsteps on the old floorboards signaled someone else, some help, someone to help. My wife entered, her silhouette framed by dim light. She looked down at me, a distance in her eyes that I couldn’t bridge.
“Do you want me to call my parents?” she asked softly.
Her words hung in the air. The thought of her parents knowing — of anyone knowing — pulled me back. Shame flushed through me. What would they think? Would they see me as unfit for their family, a burden? The weight of expectation pressed harder.
I shook my head. “No,” I whispered.
She nodded, retrieved something from the microwave, and left without another word. The silence that followed was deafening.
I pushed myself up, muscles protesting. The window’s reflection showed a man I barely recognized: tired eyes, unshaven face, shoulders slumped under invisible weights of the life I was trying to build. How had I arrived here, a place where even the simplest tasks felt insurmountable?
The trains continued their relentless rattling journeys, a reminder of time passing. Everything around me hurtled forward while I stood still helplessly watching.
I wanted to tell my wife about the storm inside me, I wanted to tell her that I was suicidal. I wanted to tell anyone, everyone, so that they could show me where to get the care I needed. But the words to ask for help were hostages of the fear and shame swimming in my head. How do you admit you’re drowning when you’re supposed to be the anchor?
Days blurred together. I went through the motions — emails, phone calls, meetings — feeling like a spectator in my own life. The different personas I adopted to fit in with colleagues, investors, my wife and family were uncomfortable. I was too ashamed to acknowledge who I was and what I was facing in my mental health, and I hated pretending to be someone that I wasn’t for the sake of fitting in. I was depressed, I wasn’t ok, I wasn’t normal, and I wanted to be loved at my worst just as much as I am loved when I am at my best.
One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the cows in the surrounding fields, I found myself drawn to the train tracks behind our house. The rumble of an approaching freight train echoed in the distance, a relentless force moving forward while I remained paralyzed in one spot. I had been fantasizing about suicide a few times a day, and some days it was the only thing I thought about: on those days, maybe the only escape from this suffocating weight was to let the train carry me away from it all.
I walked along the tracks, the evening air a biting cold against my face. Each step felt like surrendering a piece of the burden I carried. The air was crisp, filled with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves — a reminder of endings and the promise of rebirth. The train’s horn blared, a warning and a beckoning all at once.
As the headlights pierced through the darkness, I stood motionless, my heart pounding in rhythm with the clacking of the wheels against the tracks. Closing my eyes, I braced myself for oblivion, but too scared to take one more step into the train’s path.
The train thundered past, the rush of wind pulling at my clothes but doing nothing to remove the shame that overwhelmed me. The reality of what I had almost done hit me with full force. I sank to my knees, the crushing weight of my silence giving way to sobs that wracked my entire body.
“I’m struggling,” I admitted hoarsely to myself. “I feel like I’m drowning, and I don’t know how to stop it.”
The weight of silence had become unbearable, pressing down on me like the relentless rumble of the freight trains that passed by our house. As I knelt beside the tracks, my sobbing the only sound I could hear in the roar of the passing train, a realization struck me: it wasn’t the world that was crushing me — it was the silence in which I kept my own suffering locked up that was killing me.
“I can’t keep this inside anymore,” I whispered into the cold night air. The acknowledgment was both terrifying and liberating. The silence had been my prison, each unspoken word adding to the weight I carried. I knew then that if I didn’t break free, the silence would consume me entirely.
That night, instead of retreating further into myself, I picked up a pen and began to write. Words spilled onto the page, each sentence lifting a fragment of the burden I’d shouldered alone. Writing became my voice when speaking felt impossible, a bridge between my internal chaos and the world outside.
The next morning, with the first light filtering through the dusty blinds, I shared my writings with my wife. My hands trembled as I handed her the pages, the fear of judgment almost pulling me back into silence. But as she read, tears welled in her eyes — not of disappointment, but of compassion.
“I’m here,” she said softly, her hand finding mine. “You don’t have to carry this weight alone.”
In breaking my silence, I found that the walls isolating me began to crumble. Conversations with my wife led to seeking professional help, and slowly, the suffocating pressure started to ease. The house that once felt like a battlefield began to feel like a place where healing was possible.
I learned that silence can be heavy, but words — spoken or written — have the power to lighten the load. By sharing my struggle, I freed myself and opened the door for others to do the same.
If you carry a weight of silence, know that you don’t have to bear it alone. Speak your truth, reach out, and allow others to help lessen the load.
The Weight Of Silence was originally published in Invisible Illness on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.