“That dreaded day.
You went to the hospital to ask for help, but was sadly turned away. You where told if you still felt down. To come back in two more days.
As apparently you were not depressed enough, to get the help that was there. Tossed aside and forgotten about. By those in a duty of care.
You opened up and told them your demons, and the thoughts inside your head. They ignored those facts, and sent you packing. Not knowing soon you will be dead.
Off you went to the YCMA where you lived, and told the receptionist what you planned. But instead of help she offered you rope. And with that the flames were fanned.
So you went up to your room, and a letter you did write. To tell your story of how you were failed. And how you had lost your fight.
With the will to live leaving you, a noose you started to make. You put this noose around your neck. And took the decision you thought you had to take.
To end the voices inside your head, and for the demons and thoughts to be gone. You thought this was the only choice, but Dad you were truely wrong.
One day later I got the call. To tell me my dad had died. I wish I could have helped him. I wish in me he could confide.
As if there was a time machine, I would travel to that day. I would tell him that I love him, and shoo his demons away.
I would wrap him up and hug him tight. And tell him what he needed to hear. That although the world is scary, he didn’t have to fear.
But I don’t have a time machine, so I can’t travel to that day. All I have is memories. That will never go away.”
Allan McCutcheon, London