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It was your mind. The way you were wired. That was the only thing all the theories had in common. You were manic. You were depressive. You were schizophrenic. You were on drugs. You were on the wrong medication. You needed medication. You heard voices. You'd lost the will to speak. Anxiety. Disorder. Nobody knew for sure, at least nobody who was saying anything. After you left, all that remained were guesses. I would go over everything. Every detail. Every panic. Every sigh. But they never added up to anything but you. I only saw the person. I couldn't see the wiring. I couldn't fix the wiring. I tried I tried I tried.

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  • I'm so damn sorry :( . And I really hope you realize that it was never your fault.

  • I think you're talking about a loved one who committed suicide. That never happened to me, so I don't know what you're going through, but I used to be suicidal, myself. When you're that down, you are caught up in your own misery. You hate yourself, and if you do that, you feel like everyone else hates you too. You feel like a burden to the world, like every second longer you live is only prolonging your inevitable suffering. The closer you are to someone, the harder you hide your true feelings from them. You keep up a facade, no matter how paranoid you are, how much you think someone is out to get you, and cut yourself in the school bathroom, because you can't stand a few hours of not hurting yourself. No one even noticed I wasn't okay. I was careful, and calculated everything. I was a burden to people anyway, why should I have told them and worried them? Or, worse, what if they didn't even care about it? One day I had a complete breakdown, while my family was in the house. I was hearing voices, crying, answering them, even, and if I wasn't so out of it that I didn't find the right tools, I would have killed myself. No one noticed that, too. Luckily for me, I had locked myself in a room without any sharp objects. That evening, I cut all of my arms open. Just when I thought of actually going down the road, I stopped and thought about it for a second. That was when I decided I had to get help. Other people thought life was worth living. Sure, I didn't, but I'm not right that often. So the next day, I went and told my parents. I got into therapy, and eventually into a mental health clinic. It was pretty hard to recover, but I'm glad for it. Your friend, or whatever they were to you, didn't think about what it would do to you. They were so lost they couldn't even grasp the concept that they mattered to people. If they knew how much they'd hurt you, they wouldn't have done it. That's the reason I didn't kill myself back then. It's not your fault, no one is able to just "fix" a mentally ill person. Even if they got therapy, it might not have changed anything. The only person that can fix someone is the person themselves. I tried to fix myself, and I succeeded, with some help. If you lost the will, all the help in the world can't fix it. It wasn't your fault. They probably loved you, and thought you would be better off without them. I know, it sounds completely stupid, but that's the way I was thinking back then. You were the reason for some of the only happy memories they had. That's something even more precious for someone who isn't happy that often. They can't find the reason this person decided to go, but after all, the reasons don't matter. Knowing them won't bring them back. The only thing you have to know is that it wasn't your fault. It's no one's fault if someone commits suicide. I hope reading this could console you a bit, or at least give you an insight on what your loved one might have been thinking. I really hope you'll be okay. All the best to you, and if you want to talk, I'm here.

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