Today I found out that suicide is the leading cause of death in Australians aged 15-44. This statistic left me deeply troubled.

Throughout medical school, we are taught about conflicts within the body; stuff like cancers, coronary heart diseases or COPD. In these cases, the struggle is between a person and an invading problem. The patient is trying to survive against disease.

But in suicidal cases, the person isn’t necessarily trying to survive. How much loneliness, internal trauma and unsaid conversations have they stored up, just waiting to collapse on them? How many masks must they wear to hide their inner demons? How many were pushed over the edge by one unfortunate misunderstanding, and could have been saved with just one small act of kindness? The ruminations are terribly endless.

To quote from Life of Pi:

Some poor lost soul had arrived on these terrible shores before me. How much time had he – or was it she? – spent here? Weeks? Months? Years? How many forlorn hours in the arboreal city with only meerkats for company? How many dreams of a happy life dashed? How much hope come to nothing? How much stored-up conversation that died unsaid? How much loneliness endured? How much hopelessness taken on? And after all that, what of it? What to show for it?

Nothing but some enamel, like small change in a pocket.

Tonight, my soul mourns for the loneliness and unsaid conversations lost across time and space.