Years ago, I learned some truly shocking statistics about suicide – 800,000 lives lost every year. That’s one life every 40 seconds. It’s a deeply uncomfortable topic for many, but it’s one we simply can’t keep ignoring.

The truth is, suicide is the leading cause of death for men between 20 and 49. And while this affects all men, over 60% of newly-diagnosed autistic adults report having suicidal thoughts.

These numbers are devastating. We’re finally starting to talk more about mental health, but there’s so much more to be done to prevent people from reaching that point. To remind them that they’re not alone.

I nearly became a statistic many times in my younger years, and I’ve put down my thoughts in a scribble.

Every forty seconds
Someone ends their own life.

Not a metaphor.
Not a number on a website.
A person.
A real, human soul…
punched out like a clock card,
because the noise in their head
was louder than any help offered.

Forty seconds.
By the time you finish reading this poem,
someone else is gone.

But we don’t talk about it.
Not really.
We whisper it behind closed doors,
Use soft words like “passed away,”
or “lost them,”
As if they’d just wandered off into the woods
and forgotten to come home.

Mental illness is still a dirty word.
Still something we hide in drawers,
with old medication bottles
and family secrets.

We tell people
to “reach out”
but give them nothing to grab onto.

We applaud strength,
but punish vulnerability.
We ask, “How are you?”
but only want to hear:
“I’m fine.”

We romanticise broken artists
but ignore the broken people.
In our inboxes.
At our dinner tables.
In the mirror.

Some of us scream in silence.
Perfectly dressed.
Perfectly functional.
Perfectly invisible.

The truth is we lose more people
To quiet despair
than to war or violence.
And still, we treat therapy
Like a confessional booth,
Instead of healthcare.
Still, we treat emotion like weakness,
And stoicism like bravery.

It’s not brave
To bottle up the storm.
It’s brave to name it.
To say, “I’m not okay.”
To cry in the daylight.
To take meds,
See a shrink,
Open the wound,
and to not apologise for bleeding.

If you think this is heavy, good.
It’s fucking supposed to be.

Because someone you love
Is already counting the seconds.
And they don’t need a pep talk.
They need a world that listens 
Before the silence becomes permanent.