“What are the words you do not yet have? What do you need to say? … And there are so many silences to be broken.” – Audre Lorde
Dear Fellow Warrior,
I wanted to share this piece before the end of the year.
After more than ten years of suicide prevention and mental health advocacy, I write this piece as the third piece in my Suicide Note series.
Here was the first piece:
https://www.warrioretkqueen.com/a-suicide-note-1/
Here was the second piece:
https://www.warrioretkqueen.com/i-tried-to-tell-you-a-suicide-note-2/
The series sits within the tradition of confessional poetry, where “suicide notes” function as a thematic form… a way of writing from the edge of survival, defeating stigma, and speaking one’s truth, rather than any other intention. It is not meant to romanticize suicidality, rather, it is intended to humanize it... especially due to all the demonization and dehumanization of mental health that continues to this day.
This particular piece comes from the idea of how much we try to rise above adversity, rise out of the darkness, and we keep being pulled back, as if the world wanted us to stay down. As I note in the piece, this is not actually a sucide note… it is a survival declaration.
I hope to share this piece at an open mic at Busboys and Poets soon, to reclaim a sense of power and agency before the end of the year… and as part of continuing to speak openly about survival, stigma, faith, and what it means to tell the truth out loud…
… as Muslim women, whose pain is often politicized or misunderstood; as women who speak openly about mental health despite being told to stay quiet; as women who return to faith after pain rather than abandoning it; and as women who refuse to accept the shame imposed upon us for “coloring outside the lines.”
Thank you for reading it with an open mind.
“When a woman tells the truth, she is creating the possibility for more truth around her.” – Adrienne Rich
Punished for Surviving
I wasn’t supposed to live.
At least that is what I understood.
From the silence I had to swallow…
long before the attempts leading to my last breath.
I survived…somehow.
and somehow
my existence became the crime.
I was punished for surviving.
For giving my salaam to the morning…
For choosing breath over death.
For crawling back to a world that never saw me.
And forgiving that world, even if they showed no mercy for my suffering.
I told the truth.
And they called it drama.
I spilled my soul and opened my wounds.
And they thought I was crying for attention.
I shared my story.
And they made me feel like I should’ve kept it to myself.
They didn’t know that silence almost killed me.
It didn’t matter that speaking my truth saved my life.
I was punished for trying.
Punished for fighting.
Punished for saying,
“I am here,”
“I am still alive.”
“I am special. I matter.
My voice matters. My story matters.”
as if my existence was a threat
and my resilience became the rebellion.
They loved the version of me that was,
contained, pushed to the corner…
Because everyone likes a silent woman.
In the darkness… inside a cardboard box…
easier to pity
than to see her blossom into a fierce lioness…
But the moment I stood in the light….
The moment I held my chin just a little higher
The moment I said,
“No, I will not be ashamed”….
I will not be ashamed of my poverty.. I will not be ashamed of my pain…
I will not be ashamed of asking for help…
they turned away…
I didn’t know..that survival…that MY survival… would make people THIS uncomfortable.
It reminds them of their own truths… they are too afraid to accept.
I was punished for not disappearing.
For refusing to stay small.
For refusing to stay in the dark.
For refusing to rot…. To die.
They told me healing was beautiful…
until they saw what healing actually looked like…
Until they saw real, messy, righteous anger….
a woman angry…
her grief in flames, blazing passion in recovery.
Until they saw that healing means telling the whole truth….
not the filtered version…not the one
that keeps everybody comfortable, and at peace.
Because their peace relies on the silence.
I was punished for empowering myself.
As if women like me
should only rise clandestinely…
In gratitude for the crumbs of support…
without disturbing the peace
of the very people… who broke us…
in the very systems that pretend we are the broken ones…
to escape from status quo scrutiny,
of conformity..
of mediocrity
draining our humanity…
You may not hear it said out loud…
It’s in the silence,
in choosing the denial
of the magnitude of my survival.
I was punished for my return to The Surrender
For using the Hijab not just for protection of my dignity…
For reclamation of my identity…
But to honor God’s words proclaimed upon our death …
“To Him We Belong and To Him We Return.”
I was punished…For thanking Allah for saving my life.
For choosing life…
I lived…even if I was limping…
And that annoyed them.
I spoke…even when my voice was shaking..
And That threatened them.
I saved my own life…
And my God… that enraged them.
I was punished for “coloring outside the lines”… when I was supposed to fall in line.
But here I am…spilling the truth never meant to be spoken,
writing words they hoped would stay hidden…
fighting to build a life they believe I don’t deserve.
I was punished for pursuing my dreams on survival mode.
Punished for seeking love and belonging on fight mode.
No…This is not a suicide note.
This is a survival declaration.
A reclamation.
Of the dignity of my persistence.
IF My existence offends them.
If My truth scares them.
If My story disrupts their comfort…
…Let this be my resistance.
I was punished for surviving.
But I survived anyway.
I survived the punishment for surviving…
They can pray for Mercy…
I get to pray for Justice.
Solidarity with all those who have been misunderstood... because of their identity.
*******
“The artist’s struggle for integrity is a kind of metaphor for the struggle which is universal and daily.” – James Baldwin
Most people don’t understand what it takes to stand on your own two feet when experiencing trauma. You can stand on your own two feet, and still be hurt that no one came to rescue you from your drowning.
For those who witnessed your pain and did nothing, your survival becomes an accusation. You are a living reminder of their failure, limitations, and unwillingness to act. That is why they will hold resentment. Not because you are wrong, but because your defiance disrupts their comfort and their self-image. To acknowledge your survival would require them to confront what they could not, or would not, do.
Because they are unwilling to admit that their words, actions, and inactions are all part of the stigma against mental health, the very stigma that you had been fighting against. And that contributed to your prolonged suffering, especially when your invitation for conversation and understanding was repeatedly ignored and denied. It was emotional neglect.
The hard truth is that this pain is not rare. Many from marginalized communities have to live with it in silence. Many remain silent precisely because of the probability of this very “othering,” demonization, and dehumanization to take place. The struggle is heavier when trauma is bound to politicized, racialized, religious, gendered, or otherwise “othered” identities. These layers amplify harm, yet they are routinely overlooked and erased from the conversation.
What remains is a shallow narrative that praises resilience while choosing not to name the conditions that made survival so costly in the first place.
Bottom line: the pain is valid. And you are allowed to be hurt that no one helped you, even when you cried for help, and you are allowed to feel hurt, even as you stand tall… fighting to get better. Unfortunately, it is that very emotional neglect that becomes another layer of your healing process. It was entirely unnecessary and avoidable.
Take heart, and stay resilient. I write about mental health in a vulnerable, open, and honest way because I know there are people out there who get it and need someone who understands.
It is wrong, and it is discriminatory, to weaponize vulnerability against someone. I will never accept that logic. This is who I am.
If you need to be heard. I will listen.
Talk saves lives. More than you know. Let people breathe. Let people talk. Let people write. Let people have the freedom to express their pain without social and professional consequences, especially in a world in crisis.
Please don’t contribute to a culture that tells people you have to sweep it all under the rug and suffer in silence.
I have said this before. I believe the hardest part of survival is not only living with the pain of scars, or the years lost to prolonged suffering. It is living with the pain of surviving while people choose not to believe that you survived or while people punish you for trying to overcome your challenges, condition, or life’s circumstances.
Of knowing that upon having the courage to share your story in public, people saw, sensed, or suspected the truth, yet chose silence. Chose distance. Chose to appease the discomfort. Chose not to learn. Chose not to accept invitations for conversations that could have eased the suffering, or ended it sooner.
I will have to live with this layered pain for the rest of my life.
Only I know how hard I fought to stay alive. Only I know how grand of a warrior I had to be then, have to be now, and will need to be going forward…
Please support suicide prevention efforts.
Peace, Warmth, and Blessings,
Your sister, Dr. Elsa, Warrior KQueen
“She wasn’t looking for a Knight. She was looking for a Sword.” – Atticus
*******
Thank you for reading and engaging!
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