You cannot accept yourself as you are. Tormented, paralyzed, you feel alone… Above all, you don’t love yourself and you think that no one else is able to love you. You prefer death rather than living in this unbearable way. Death appears as a means of help and it fascinates you.
- At the heart of this distress, I want to shout a message of hope: YOU ARE LOVED! Will you accept to let yourself be loved – just as you are, right now – by someone who gave his life for you? His name? Jesus!
- “Jesus died” you tell me! Yes, its true. But he is risen, he is alive. Today, right now, you can talk with him. He will hear you. This is not difficult: turn to him in the depth of your heart and tell him about your distress, your weariness, all that you are living through. Call to him for help… Your prayer is enough. Believe me, it will touch his heart, because he understands you. Like you, he knew terrible anguish, the night before his death, at Gethsemani. This is why he is very close to you. He wants and he is able to console you.
- During moments of great anguish, don’t stay alone. Call for help, talk with a friend or an aquaintance in whom you trust… Telephone a brother or sister who will listen to you and pray with you or any other organization that would also respect your anonymity.
- When we discover that we are loved by God, we are able to be reconciled with ourselves, to accept our weaknesses and our past…. More and more, you will understand that your life has a sense if you devote it to others, if you try to help those suffering around you. You will see that your life is not a drop of water in the ocean or a number appearing by accident as a statistic. (see also Q.42 and Q.43)
AIUTA CON UN PICCOLO CONTRIBUTO:
I was 18 and wanted to die.
My name is Christal, I am 18 and live with my grandmother. For a long time, I hung out with a gang of 20-year-old boys outside of Paris. I was the only girl and perversity and alcohol ran rampant. At the beginning of November, the father of one of the boys tried to rape me. I felt so dirty that two days later I slit my wrist. Failure. I found an outlet in my appearance: black clothes, outrageous make-up, part of my hair shaved off. I was filled with violence and aggressiveness.
December: second suicide attempt, this time with sleeping pills. Another failure. I stop hanging out with the gang.
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