I have always been deemed the strong one. The one that you could rely on. The one who always offered a shoulder to cry on. The one who you had never seen shed a tear. The one who always had the right words of comfort and truth which allowed you to grieve without feeling judged. I am honest to a fault, but that allowed me to get to the deeper issues that others were facing and ask the hard questions that needed to be answered. If you do not allow yourself to hurt, you will never heal.

But what happens when I need to cry? What happens when I need someone to listen to my troubles and ask the hard questions? I find that no one is around and willing to do what I have done for them. They don’t enjoy the uncomfortable conversations if they are not the ones benefitting from it. They don’t want to ask the hard questions for the fear of overstepping. They don’t know the right words to say or how to listen without judgement, so instead they say “I’m Sorry” and walk away.

I grew up facing my pain and struggles alone, since my parents didn’t feel comfortable seeing me in a vulnerable state. They didn’t want to talk about my emotions or how I was handling the demons in my heart and in my head. They watched as I suffered, but knew that I would always manage to find my way back to the strong girl they knew. I had to ask myself the difficult questions, and I forced myself to answer them. Everyone thinks of the hard questions, but if they are not voiced then you can get avoid answering them. I didn’t have a choice. Had I tried to bury my monsters I would have died. Likely by my own hand.

I was the strong one. The one who held a gun to my head, but couldn’t pull the trigger. The one who had to take medication to stop the demons in my head from ruling. The one who sat alone in the darkness of my room for days on end, while everyone else was enjoying the Spring sun. I was the one who was always tired, both physically and emotionally and spent most hours sleeping off the ache of hating myself. I was the one who had to be hospitalized and have my stomach pumped to remove the medicine cabinet of pills I had consumed. I was the one who always had a smile, a fake smile, but still a smile.

You see me as the strong one. But I am only strong for the people around me. You see me with a constant smile and a witty joke ready to make you laugh. My humor may be dark, but who doesn’t have a dark side? Who would ever expect me, the strong one, to not be strong at all. To be the weakest of the bunch. To be the one who really needs to be saved.

I will always be the strong one. That is until I can’t be strong any longer and those at my funeral will wonder how they didn’t see it. How they didn’t know. They’ll think, ‘This can’t be right. She was the strong one. She would never take her own life”. They will always think of me as the strong one, and my funeral will be packed with the people who I was strong for, and they will all wonder why I could not be strong for myself.

I am the strong one. For now.