For as long as I can remember—since I was 16 or even earlier—chronic suicidal thoughts have been an unrelenting presence in my life. They’re not fleeting or circumstantial but deeply embedded in my mind, shaping how I experience the world and how I interact with others. Despite the love, support, and best intentions of those around me, these thoughts have proven immune to external efforts to “fix” them. Many well-meaning friends believe their care or encouragement should somehow dissolve the darkness, or they assume I must not be trying hard enough to help myself. What they don’t fully understand is that these thoughts are part of the fabric of my existence, born from the lasting scars of childhood trauma and reinforced by years of relying on them as a distorted coping mechanism. They are not something that can simply be repaired with love, willpower, or even the best therapies.
Over the years, I’ve sought countless avenues of help—therapy, medication, self-help books, prayer, church, and self-reflection. Therapy has been a particularly vital space, offering me a safe environment to explore the pain and address the root causes of my struggles. It has helped me understand the complexity of my emotions and equipped me with tools to confront them. Yet, as valuable as therapy is, it has its limitations. These thoughts never fully disappear, no matter how much progress I make or how many breakthroughs I achieve.
Medication has been another essential yet challenging aspect of my journey. The right medication can provide temporary relief, lifting the oppressive fog just enough to glimpse a brighter world. But finding the right combination has been an uphill battle. Some medications have caused unbearable side effects, adding to the already overwhelming burden of my condition. Others have brought moments of hope, only for those moments to dissolve when the effects inevitably fade, leaving me to confront the darkness once again. The rollercoaster of trying new treatments—feeling fleeting relief followed by crushing despair—has been emotionally and physically draining.
Despite these efforts, the reality remains: chronic suicidal thoughts are a deeply rooted and multifaceted issue. They aren’t something that can be eradicated by well-meaning interventions, temporary fixes, or even my own determination. This is a lifelong battle, and coming to terms with that truth has been one of the hardest aspects of my journey. For those around me, understanding this reality is equally important. It’s not about a lack of gratitude for their support or an unwillingness to try; it’s about the nature of these thoughts, which are as much a part of my mental landscape as any other deeply ingrained habit or reflex.
These thoughts don’t reserve themselves for moments of crisis or overwhelming emotion; they intrude during the most everyday activities. Standing in line at the grocery store, I might find myself calculating how easy it would be to step into traffic. During a seemingly unremarkable work meeting, the sharp edge of a letter opener can catch my eye and draw my thoughts toward self-harm. Even in moments of joy—watching a comedy with friends or laughing over a shared memory—these thoughts can intrude, a jarring reminder that they are always lurking in the background.
The persistence of these thoughts creates a constant, exhausting tension. Some days are easier to manage, and I can navigate life with relative ease. On these days, the weight feels lighter, and I can find comfort in the small, ordinary moments—enjoying the taste of a cup of tea, feeling the warmth of the sun on my face, or hearing the gentle purr of my cat as she curls up beside me. These small pockets of peace remind me that life, even in its darkest moments, holds tiny glimpses of light.
But there are also days when the simplest tasks feel insurmountable. Brushing my teeth, taking a shower, or even getting out of bed can feel like monumental challenges. The relentlessness of these thoughts on such days is utterly exhausting, and their omnipresence leaves me wondering if they will ever let go.
One of the most difficult aspects of living with chronic suicidal thoughts is their unpredictability. I never know when they will hit me the hardest or when a moment of calm will be shattered by their resurgence. This uncertainty makes planning for the future daunting. How do I set goals, dream, or build a life when I’m constantly bracing for the next wave of despair? The anticipation of their return creates a state of perpetual anxiety, making it hard to find stability, let alone peace.
Recently, I began taking a new medication that, for a brief time, felt like a breakthrough. For over a year (and still there are times, weeks even), the oppressive weight lifted, and the world seemed brighter. It was as if I had stepped out of a long, dark tunnel and into the light. For the first time in a long time, I could envision a life not dominated by these thoughts. But this reprieve was heartbreakingly short-lived. When the thoughts returned, they came back with a vengeance, crashing down on me like a tidal wave. The stark contrast between those fleeting moments of peace and the overwhelming resurgence of despair made the experience even more painful. The emotional whiplash of hope followed by hopelessness was almost more than I could bear.
This cycle—the momentary relief, the crushing return of the thoughts, and the struggle to keep moving forward—feels like a cruel trick. It makes me question whether the brief moments of clarity and normalcy are worth the devastation that follows. And yet, I find myself clinging to those moments, however fleeting, because they remind me that it’s possible to feel something other than this darkness but also wishing I never had them.
I’ve learned to find solace in the small things. The smell of freshly brewed tea, the soft hum of a favorite song, the warmth of a friend’s laughter—these tiny fragments of joy are what I hold onto when the world feels unbearable. They don’t erase the pain, but they provide a brief respite, a reminder that even in the midst of suffering, there are moments worth cherishing.
This journey has taught me that chronic suicidal thoughts aren’t something to be “cured” in a traditional sense. They are a condition to be managed, an ongoing challenge that requires resilience, effort, and patience. Medication, therapy, and support are invaluable tools, but they aren’t magic solutions. The battle is mine to fight, and each day that I choose to continue is a victory, no matter how small.
Living with chronic suicidal thoughts is an exhausting and unpredictable existence. It’s a fight that requires immense strength, not only to face the thoughts themselves but to navigate the stigma and misunderstanding that often accompany them. But in the face of this struggle, I’ve found a deeper understanding of resilience. Each day I choose to keep going, to face another sunrise, is a testament to the strength of the human spirit. It’s a reminder that even in our darkest moments, there is a part of us that refuses to be extinguished—a part that clings to the hope that one day, things might get better.
And so, I keep fighting. Not because it’s easy or because I believe the struggle will end, but because I’ve learned that life, even with its overwhelming challenges, still holds moments of beauty. These moments, however fleeting, are worth holding onto. Each one is a reason to keep going, to keep hoping, and to keep finding strength in the face of the shadows.
Even though I frequently talk about bridges, razor blades, and other methods of suicide, it is not for attention or amusement. These thoughts are intrusive and persistent, and sharing them is my way of reaching out for support and understanding. It is crucial that people hear me and stand by my side during these times, not out of pity, but because their presence helps anchor me in the storm.
The post Living with Chronic Suicidal Thoughts: A Personal Reflection first appeared on Tracy Boggiano's Blog.