By Musaib Bilal

I tried to take my life at sixteen, and again at eighteen.

Both times I felt I had run out of room for pain, shame, and the weight of feeling unworthy.

I believed I was a waste, burden, and undeserving of space.

The first time, I was drowning in the chaos of adolescence. My grades were slipping, friendships were thin, and mask of perfection was cracking.

The second time, the ache was heavier, more suffocating. Years of unspoken grief had built a wall around me. I thought I was too far gone.

But here I am, writing this. That, in itself, is proof. Survival and healing are possible. Life can be rebuilt.

People don't end their lives because they hate living. They do it because they want their pain to stop.

Suicide is rarely about a single event. It grows out of layers: mental illness, stress, shame, isolation, trauma, money worries, and heartbreak.

These forces converge until hope seems to vanish.

Behind every attempt there is a cry for help to end the misery.

The way we speak about suicide adds another wound. The label“pagal” is thrown around with ease.

That one word erases the human story, the years of silent battles, and the weight of trauma.

It turns a life into a caricature and a family into a whisper. This stigma not only dishonours the dead but also silences the living. People who might reach out stay silent, afraid of ridicule, and being treated as broken.

Stigma also shapes the way support works. Those who open up are often dismissed with casual remarks or quickly labelled“depressed,” as if naming it is enough. They are treated as outsiders instead of people in need of care.

Every struggling person requires understanding. They need a listener who will sit with their pain without judgment. Breaking stigma means building a culture where seeking help is seen as strength.

Kashmir's outer realities make inner battles even harder.

Joblessness here is among the highest in the country, draining men of their sense of identity and dignity. Addiction to opioids and prescription drugs is rising, trapping young people in cycles of dependency.

Decades of discord have left invisible scars on our psyches. Children grow up with uncertainty, families carry generational trauma, and many households lack the emotional scaffolding to support their young.

Add broken family structures, domestic violence and societal pressures, and despair begins to feel like a permanent atmosphere.

Mental‐health services are thin, underfunded, and often out of reach. Together, these forces create a climate where suicide feels like an exit door.

Another hard truth: suicide here, as elsewhere, disproportionately claims men's lives.

Almost three out of four suicides in India are by men. It's not because men feel less pain but because they are taught to hide it.

Boys grow up hearing they must be strong, that tears are shameful, and that vulnerability is weakness. Anger is allowed, grief is not.

This bottling up is lethal. Without ways to express emotion, many men carry their pain alone until it crushes them.

There's also what some call the“male loneliness epidemic.”

Male friendships are often built around activities, jokes or political talk, not around sharing feelings. Without a space to confide in, men bear their troubles in silence.

When loneliness combines with unemployment, family pressure or addiction, hopelessness takes hold. Without emotional resilience or a support network, suicide starts to look like relief.

Changing this culture begins with language. We must teach boys that crying is not weakness, asking for help is human, and strength is not measured in stoicism.

We must create spaces for deeper friendships and communities where men can lean on each other. Giving men the words to describe their feelings will save lives. Real courage lies in letting the pain out.

The shame around male vulnerability runs deep in the valley. Homes shaped by conflict and economic strain reward toughness and ridicule softness. Tears are mocked, silence is praised.

Men inherit a version of masculinity that offers no space for fear, grief or confusion. They are expected to provide without being taught how to process the burden. Friendships rarely move beyond the surface. Confessing depression invites dismissal.

This cocktail of cultural silence, lack of resources and rigid masculinity is costing lives.

Shifting it requires bravery from families, schools and communities. Families must let boys cry. Schools must allow conversations about feelings. Communities must swap judgment for empathy.

Kashmiri men deserve better than silence. They deserve friendships that hold their pain and a society that sees vulnerability as part of being human, not a humiliation.

The numbers are grim. Globally, suicide is among the top causes of death for young people. In India, two‐thirds of suicides happen between the ages of 18 and 45. Jammu and Kashmir faces a sharp rise in attempts and fatalities, mostly among youth.

Behind each number is a story: a young man collapsing under despair, a young woman fading in isolation, and a family left searching for answers.

I look back at my sixteen‐ and eighteen‐year‐old selves and wish someone had said: You are human, and worthy of life.

If you are struggling today, hear this: you are not alone. There is help, hope, and future beyond the pain.

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