Dear Kimberly,

Content Warning

Suicide, Depression, Mental Health

A letter to my 26 year old self, who attempted suicide

Dear Kimberly,

We just passed the 10-year anniversary of our last suicide attempt.

Yes, the last one. I'm so grateful it was.

I am writing to you now and you wouldn’t believe the difference between us.

I know you, but you don’t know me.

I can picture you lying in bed right now. In the attic room of our friend Tom’s house. Tom, who saved us by carrying us down two flights of stairs and driving us straight to A&E. Tom who, did so much more than he probably realises to save our life more than once.

I remember so well that every minute of our life back then felt so long. So hard. So numb. Everything was difficult. Everything was a struggle. You were a different kind of tired then. One that sleep doesn’t fix.

I wish I could come back to visit you and tell you everything is going to be okay. Tell you what to do. Tell you there isn't a magic fix, but there is a way through this.

You have had so much help and support to get to where you are now, but I would be doing you an injustice if I didn’t tell you that YOU are the one who saved us.

You are the one who decided to try again. You are the one who chose to try something else. Slowly, you chose to stop hating yourself – and see what would happen if you tried loving yourself instead.

It worked.

You watched your eyes change as you talked to yourself differently in the mirror. You watched people around you leave as you developed boundaries. You chose to tell people your inside thoughts. You asked for, and accepted help. You embraced daylight. Fresh air. Water.

Not every day, but enough days. Enough days of trying until it didn’t feel like trying anymore. It just was.

When getting out of bed and opening the curtains and drinking water felt, easy – you added new things. Walking. Socialising. Talking.

When something helped, you built on it. When something stopped helping – you adapted. When something made things worse, you noticed. You changed it.

Over time, you got to know yourself better than anyone else ever could. You learned what helps, what hurts, and what you need when life becomes difficult.

I won’t pretend it’s been easy. It’s not like you rolled out of bed one day and decided to become well. It was excruciatingly difficult at times. You almost didn’t make it at times. But as I am today, 36 and looking back at you, I am overwhelmingly proud, impressed and beyond grateful for what you did for us.

We have known others who weren’t as lucky. Whose help didn’t reach them in time. You see them now, frozen in time – who they were, but they’ll get to become who they could have been.

You did, and I can’t thank you enough for that.

Our days are filled with so much love now. We notice everything, like the way the moon reflects in puddles or the way clouds look behind telegraph poles. We admire bees surrounding lavender and the steam on a fresh cup of coffee.

We have friends. Incredible friends. Some of them you know, some are new.

We are healthy and strong. We cycle and lift weights and do yoga and walk. We cook. We have a cat and a garden and we love crisp, white bed sheets.

Our brain on the other hand – well, we aren’t always on speaking terms. You’ll learn not to believe everything you think. She has bad days, but you know better now. Bad days don’t equal a bad life.

And if you're reading this while carrying the kind of exhaustion that sleep doesn't fix, please tell someone. Let someone sit in the dark with you for a while. The future isn't always visible from where you are standing, but that doesn't mean it isn't there.

Here's to the next 10 years.

All my love,

Kimberly

If this blog has raised difficult feelings for you, please remember support is available. You can contact Samaritans free on 116 123, or speak to someone you trust, your GP, or a mental health professional. You can call 111 for option 2 in Norfolk and Suffolk.