Trigger alert: suicide & mental health issues

Dear Future Historian,

I need to talk, even if it’s been 13 years.

At the cemetery. Everyone is dead here. Everyone but me. A cat suddenly appears from behind a grave. I keep walking. At some point, I reach John's grave.

‘Hi mate, I told you I'd come'.

I take off my shoes. Graves are holy ground. I place the sleeping bag on and sit down. Next, I take the bottle of wine that I had brought and open it.

‘Cheers John'. I drink a bit, then I get up, lift the sleeping bag, and pour some wine on his grave.

‘Cheers’.

I was about to drink some more wine, but then I thought that I would need a wee soon. I have a long night ahead of me. The cold is getting stronger. I lay in my cocoon, on the grave, when I thought I heard footsteps. I jump up. Well if it was a ghost then John could also become a ghost and he'd protect me. Maybe.

‘Will you ever forgive me mate for... for letting this happen?’

I only knew him for three months. And at first, he was more into my sister anyway. But I was recovering from a break-up. And we had the best 3 months ever. Or it would have been if I wasn't still in love with my ex.

Then Autumn came, along with my ex. He wanted me back, I wanted him back.

I hated him.

‘Why now? Now that I have to break someone's heart to be with him. Maybe I have to stay with John now; maybe we will outlive John and get back together in the far future, after he is… not-here-any-more.’

That was of course never the plan. That was just a thought. A fast disposable thought. But, not fast enough for me not to remember that it did indeed cross my mind just three days before John jumped out of a mental hospital window!

I was grumpy that weekend. My ex met me to ask me for a goodbye-coffee before he went backpacking in Italy. John realised my mind was elsewhere and started acting weird. I said I needed some time to process all that, how I felt and what I wanted. I wanted to go backpacking too.

John mentioned death wishes. He was saying stuff about the devil, and magic ceremonies he had participated in as a teenager. He thought that his soul was doomed and that he brought misfortune to his family. I wasn't in the mood for helping anyone. I needed help myself. I wanted everyone to leave me alone.

‘What the heck mate? I've told you my ex was about to kill himself some months ago. And that I only recently recovered from my religious upbringing. And now you tell me about suicide and the devil?’

I didn't say all of that of, course. I just said something like:

‘Jesus can save you, even though I don't believe in any of that anymore. But if the devil exists, then so does Jesus, I guess. I know people that can help you. Let's talk about it on Monday.’

And then I left him. I just like that opened the door and left, telling myself that I can't save everyone.

‘I'm just a bisexual, weird girl, with dyslexia, depression and anxiety. Why do I have to save the world?’

That was the last time I saw him. He went to a church that night. It was locked. He freaked out and some neighbours called the police. They took him to a mental hospital. He managed to break some bars and jump out of the window.

There, laying upon John’s grave, I promise that I will never underestimate the power of my help and my energy again. I could have helped him, or at least I could have tried. I did know people that could actually help him. But I thought it wasn't my job to save him. I thought that I could demand from the universe a weekend off, to think through my own problems.

I'm cold and I need a wee even more now. The shadows are spooky and no sign of the cat. I sit up again and as I turn to take the wine bottle, I see her, the Moon. She's always there for me, always keeping me company.

I am suddenly aware that I am at a cemetery for real. I get in my sleeping bag again and I close my eyes.

I start the mantra that my Google search guaranteed would give me access to the 5^th dimension, the place of dreams and the dead. I add a little bit of Carlos Castaneda and the books, the movies and the Greek myths that I know, about contacting the dead.

That's what I came to do tonight. Try to contact John for the last time. Tell him I'm sorry that I didn't even try to save him. And promise him that I will never shut my door to my friends again. He was my friend.

Mumbling the mantra, and despite the fact that I want to wee, I'm cold, and in a cemetery, I fall asleep imagining my funeral. I want to be re-born. Not in the Christian way. In my way. I want to be the one that will try to save the world. I want to always have my door open to my friends and I want my books to affect people, to help them choose life. Back to the mantra.

At 5 am I wake up. I need to go before people start coming. I pack up. I don't remember my dream. Maybe John heard my apology even if I didn't hear him. Maybe I wasn't worthy to go to the 5^th dimension in full awareness.

Maybe I'm just getting on the same catastrophic track as he did. Feeling that I am not good for the people I care for. Feeling guilty led him to the grave.

Maybe It will help if I write about it.

Maybe... I don't know.

PS. I did a wall-collage when John died, to keep me sane. (You can find photos* of this project @

https://dearfuturehistorians.blogspot.com/2020/04/collage-attempts-2002-2012.html)

*by Christina Christidou.