There’s a specific kind of ache that comes from doing the right thing—and getting punished for it.
I’ve been there. Too many times.
The calls usually come late. Shaky voice on the other end. Tears. Silence. Then the words no one wants to hear:
“I don’t want to live anymore.”
And in that moment, you don’t think.
You act.
You call someone—anyone—who can intervene. 911. A crisis line. A friend who lives closer. Because when someone you love is in crisis, love demands action. Even if you’re terrified of how they’ll feel about it later.
I’ve made those calls. For family. For friends. I’ve called for people who said they wanted to hurt themselves or didn’t know if they could make it through the night. And then, when the dust settled—when the officers left, or the ambulance pulled off—what came next wasn’t relief.
It was rage. Directed at me.
“You shouldn’t have called them.”
“You embarrassed me.”
“You made things worse.”
“You’re the reason they’re locked up now.”
“You betrayed us.”
They didn’t see it as love. They saw it as betrayal. And that… that hurts more than I can ever fully explain.
Because I didn’t call for attention. I didn’t call to be right. I called to save someone’s life.
To make sure they had a tomorrow.
To make sure I didn’t get another call the next day that started with, “I’m sorry to tell you…”
But what do you do when your attempt to help someone becomes the very thing people resent you for?
They only saw the fallout. Not the fear.
They didn’t hear the trembling voice on the phone.
They didn’t sit through the silence, praying they hadn’t done it already.
They didn’t wonder if they’d be too late.
They only saw flashing lights.
Police at the door.
Ambulance in the driveway.
An awkward silence at the family gathering a few weeks later.
And instead of saying “thank you,”
They looked at me like I was the reason the storm came through.
But I refuse to feel ashamed for saving a life.
I need to say this clearly:
If you’ve ever called for help when someone you loved was in crisis, you are not wrong.
You are not weak.
You are not the villain.
You are someone who chose action over comfort. Someone who risked being hated, ridiculed, or blamed just to make sure someone else had a chance to keep breathing.
And if that makes me the enemy in their story… so be it.
I’d rather be the villain who saved their life than the bystander who stood in silence while they lost it.
The Uncomfortable Truth?
Sometimes, saving someone means losing them for a while.They may not speak to you. They may blame you. But if they’re alive to be mad at you—that’s still a win.
We don’t talk enough about what it’s like to carry that weight. The guilt of doing the right thing. The loneliness of being the one who made the call.
The judgment that follows you, especially when the people you tried to protect forget it was never about control—it was about care.
So yeah… this post is personal.
But it’s necessary.
To anyone who’s ever dialed that number, made that report, or said “they need help”—this one’s for you.
You did what love looks like when it’s hard.
Don’t let anyone convince you otherwise.
So what happens if it happens again?
What if the same person who once resented you reaches out during another mental crisis?
1. Stay calm, even if you feel triggered.
You’ve been here before. And it hurt. But take a deep breath. Ground yourself. This is about their safety—not your guilt.
2. Set emotional boundaries.
You can care without carrying the entire weight. Ask yourself: Am I the right person to handle this? If not, refer them to a crisis line, therapist, or another trusted adult who can intervene.
3. Document and protect yourself.
If this is a repeated cycle and you fear being blamed again, protect your peace. Let someone else know what’s happening, or have a third party involved when possible.
4. Don’t let guilt stop you from doing what’s right—again.
Even if they blamed you before, if someone says they want to harm themselves, take it seriously. Every. Time. You might be the only person they reached out to.
5. Give yourself permission to walk away afterward.
Helping someone in crisis doesn’t mean you owe them continued access to your peace. You did your part. You can love from afar, even if it’s from the other side of a blocked number.
Final word?
Helping someone in a mental health crisis is never easy—especially when it costs you your peace, your place in the family, or their trust.
But sometimes… love looks like intervention.
Even if they never thank you.
Even if they call you the villain.
Even if your voice shakes every time the phone rings after midnight.
You still did what needed to be done.
💚 Kae Jaye
Kae Jaye The Writer 