Trigger Warning: Suicidal themes
How do you get help when you are so convinced that you do not want it?
This is the question that has been lingering in my mind as I loosely participated in my first day at a partial hospitalization. The partial that I am attending for this first week is five days of various groups including goal planning, dialectical behavior therapy, expressive therapy, and check-ins with the mental-health professionals. It goes from about 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. Then, I come home to settle in for the rest of the evening until the next day, where I start the process all over again.
For what is relevant in this article, I have ended the first day with a new direction worming its way into my brain. I am reminded of the possibilities of life: all the good, all the gold specks I had forgotten about, all the brightness and color and glitter.
I want to practice, for this moment, what I have discovered today. There was an individual at this partial that was open and honest about their suicidal ideation. We are not allowed to go into detail as it may trigger others, but the candidness and hard-worked ease that this person displayed in discussing their issues had me not only marveling at them but also sparked rivaling jealousy.
I remember when I used to be open and honest about my struggles; it was most probably my greatest asset in my recovery. But since January of this year, I have become silent in the shadow of my struggles.
My current experience is one without depression, and yet, I am afraid to say that I have a suicide plan. As of 24 hours ago to the time that I wrote this article, I had intent. My thoughts both increased and got worse than how they were before my last hospitalization.
I know what I would have used to kill myself. I had accessed two methods that were within my possession. I wanted to send the song lyrics to “One More Light” by Linkin Park to a group of friends as my final farewell. Depending upon my location, I was planning on sending the texts then turning my phone to silent as I completed suicide.
Every time people have asked me how I am doing, I have lied. I have said I do not have any suicide plans, no intent, and I do not feel unsafe.
It is true that I do not feel unsafe, but it is because I have decided to die. It is strange to come to this conclusion—I do not know why I am writing this article or why I have tweeted the things I have if I am only going to follow through with my plans.
I guess it is the same reason that I am still breathing, that I am thinking of fan fiction, that I am watching movies—because there are better alternatives to my struggles than suicide.
Suicide would be a very painful and lonely experience. I have so much to offer the world, so much worth, and so much left to say. Losing a limb really is not all it would be cracked up to be. The pain, physically, would be daunting. It does not have to end this way.
I could get help. I could let someone help me; I could let myself save me.
Because it could get better and it probably would, even if I do little else but lie in my bed and wait for it to come. For right now, the thoughts are gone, and these moments of peace will come to fruition if I do nothing else but wait for it. 
But, it is scary moving forward to abandon the suicidal thoughts. They seem like friends now, and the lies and contradictions of being suicidal have pierced through me so easily and messily even while my eyes plead to be caught and captured. I am caught between weaving a well-played showcase of lies and spouting the truth from my innards into the air around me so that someone, anyone, just truly knows what is going on.
I feel like I need to preach my sins in confessional. Maybe what I do is give myself time; time to think, to reflect, to reach out, to get help—fully and completely—and to rebuild my “Recovery Raquel” persona. Because maybe Recovery Raquel isn’t gone; maybe she’s just under construction.
And so I find myself asking again, if reaching out to someone is not for a cry for help, attention or because I am ambivalent, can I reach out for the future me who will be grateful to be alive when the beacon for recovery returns to this night sky?
I guess we’ll find out.