We may have learnt a lot about mental health since people have started to come out and speak about it but we have only yet scraped the surface. There is still a lot of stigma surrounding depression and it is mostly because people who have never been through it, can’t possibly help you. They might be your friends or family and they might be very caring, but, if you are depressed, they won’t be able to help you simply ’cause they don’t even understand your problems, to begin with.

But, you know what’s even worse? To be on the other side of it. Watching your close ones suffer while you just stand there, helpless, when all you want to do is to get them out of that mess. Perhaps this poem by Ishmeet Nagpal titled ‘Before You Commit Suicide’ can help you with that.

The video uploaded by UnErase Poetry explains what it is to go through depression. It is not the same as regular sadness so one cannot expect a depressed person to “try and be happier” to “have fun” and to “chill out”. There is no “chill”. It doesn’t work like that and this poem puts all that painful suffering beautifully into words for “normal people” to understand.

And if you think that a person who is depressed might be able to help you help them, you would be wrong. Depression is a feeling of nothingness. You don’t know what’s wrong and all you can feel is this void which you can’t fill with any amount of material things or sometimes, even emotions. As Ishmeet says, “You want to rip off this chest and throw away your heart too.”

Read the full poem here:

On the days, you know all the art & beauty in the world is not going to save you.
You finish off your money on expensive drinks and creamy food.
With the life seeping out of your fingertips.
And strangers wondering if you are okay…
if you ever will be.
If theses friends will distract you forever or not at all.
You see, there are just too many people
and too many too many moments
and too many times you need to talk when you really don’t want to.
And if one more person asks, “Are you okay?”
You swear you won’t be.
No matter how many times you pull at this door it still won’t open.
‘Cause right in front of your blinded eyes in bold letters, it says “push”.
“Push”.
You think once you’re gone, will they talk fondly of you?
Of how generous you were or how you had all the potential in the world.
Will they conclude it was love or money that killed you,
Or whether it was really the black hole in your chest that finally consumed you.
Will they know of the poems stashed under the ash trays?
Or the songs you planned to sing.
Or the art you meant to create.
On the days, you know all the art & beauty in the world is not going to save you.
You want to rip off this chest and throw away your heart too.
But stop.
Wait.
Hold on.
‘Cause someone, somewhere, feels the same truth.
So when this monster kills another person every 40 seconds,
it can easily consume her too.
And even though she thinks
no one and nothing can save her,
I still have to try.
Will you?