The sand, the sea, the cries

I went to the beach yesterday, wondering if this was it – if this would be the day. I bought a couple of beers, pork sandwiches and a pack of cigarettes, thinking “If I’m going, I’m not going hungry.” I hadn’t eaten in over a day. 

I parked myself on the sand, not bothering to remove my wool coat. I took the bus there, so I had plenty of time to think and go over it: would someone notice right away? Would I wash ashore hours later? Would my parents refuse to accept that I had willingly gone into the water, insisting it had to have been an accident? Would it warrant an investigation? I’d be autopsied. When they got home that evening and I wasn’t there, would my parents call my friends first?

I was not counting on the children.

I live by the coast, bathed by the Atlantic. I had my beer and my resolution to end my life. I looked out to the sea. Two sets of kids were playing, one boy and one girl in each set, each of them living a different life, connected by a red string. Each set was playing on one side of me, their parents sitting on the sand, not unlike me, watching them splash around on the shore, running away from the waves with their loud giggles. All four of these children must have been between 5 and 8 years old. Unbothered, untouched by the world, I would assume (and hope).

I’ve wanted to die ever since I became aware I was alive. I don’t think those children have felt that. If they have, they were hiding it well, but then again so was I all those years ago.

What I’m trying to say is: having children around is sure to foil anyone’s plan to walk into the sea. Or perhaps my resolution to end my life was too weak. I can’t seem to be strong for either thing these days – too weak to face life and too weak to end it.

So, I sat for hours, watched the kids play, drank my beers, ate my pork sandwiches. More people arrived, most of them tourists, videoing and photographing the waves and the surfers. Portugal can feel like summer in April. 

At some point, what I assume was a mother, son, and daughter trio arrived, and sat to my left, not too far from me. The daughter, who must have been just out of high school, had on a black top and white linen pants, but once they arrived she changed to a beautiful summer dress, mid-calf length. She handed her mother her phone, walked to the water, and began a photoshoot. I found myself cringing, immediately rolling my eyes, but soon stopped. She looked happy. Not just happy, but like she was having fun.

Her mother was guiding her to better poses, smiling as well, encouraging her, and I could not remember the last time I had been happy in that way. When had I been anything but mortified at having my photo taken? When had my mother ever shown such support for something I was interested in, unless she could make it about her somehow? 

This high school girl was not cringe – she was free and I was jealous.

It began to make me feel sick just how happy and content everyone at this beach seemed, knowing what I had come to do. When you’re sick, it’s hard not to feel like you’re the only one with problems.

The worst part about hiding when you’re at your lowest is that no one knows. No one is coming to save you. No one finds you on the bathroom floor, clutching your chest.

Is it a cry for help if the cry is silent?