***Trigger warning pertaining the topic of suicide and dark "self-talks." Does end positively. Not an exact fit to the prompt, but I'd like to share.***

Have you forgotten your grandmother's home phone number during the 90's?

Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Don't think about it.

There is a lot I wish I didn't remember, and honestly I always will. Maybe for you too?

It doesn't mean we will act on it. The fleeting thought lingers on tough days. Whispering in the dark. Intrusive thoughts growing louder. But hey, some days they also grow fainter.

It begins to feel like a familiar path I've strolled down before. Recognizing the twists and turns of my mood sinking. Anger or fear knocking potholes in my route. The smell in air of pure bitter depression. The taste of everything, everything being bland. And I'll admit, sometimes I slip towards that direction again a little to quickly. Too easy. Too familiar to me.

Have you forgotten your grandmother's home phone number during the 90's?

No, I bet you haven't. Just like you haven't forgotten what the taste of metal in your mouth taste like from that time you put a barrel there. Or how a handful of pills is more of sharp chucks of rocks going down your throat.

It's there, accept it. You're a survivor of a suicide attempt. You have a story to tell... or not tell if you like. But it's apart of you now, because you survived. You are a survivor.

This doesn't mean you taste the metal every day. It doesn't mean you feel your lungs running out of air again. It doesn't mean you're going to be fighting this for the rest of your life.

Every day I face myself in the mirror is another day I see improvement. Recovery. Simply because I'm there in in the first place. Whether on my worse days or best. I'm still standing.

And to the loved ones, or outsiders, or society or fucking whoever else that's not us: When you see us still fighting tooth and nail against those intrusive memories every now-and-again, remember that we are still here. Which means we are still fighting.

So don't be the face that looks down upon me. Don't be the one to overreact and treat every little bad day I have as some sort of setback. Some of you are my everything, a big motivation, a daily reminder of what's good.

But some of you are also a daily reminder of what's bad. As I look into your eyes, I see my future go up in flames again. The memory of burning flesh. The tightness of a rope. The stinging of a blade.

No, no, not this time. Not anymore. Even when the intrusive thoughts flood in all over again, I go back to my mirror.

I see myself. I see where I've been. I see myself standing, instead of laying in bed all day. Maybe I washed my hair today, maybe I couldn't even manage to brush it. But I'm still here.

Either be the eyes the praise upon me, or be the feet that walk away from me.

**Thank you to whoever read this far. I am not alone, you are not alone.

I'm not a professional. The national suicide and crisis hotline changed to three easy numbers now: 988. Easier than your grandmother's landline was in the 90's...❤️