67 | Frayed Beginnings: The Worn FABRIC

Predisposition and the Invisible Unravelling

Where suicide risk begins — quietly, invisibly. This episode explores the earliest, often overlooked signs of emotional unraveling through the metaphor of FABRIC: Fragile sense of self, Alienation, Burdensomeness, Repetitive rumination, Inescapable circumstances, and Curtain of despair.

Before there are plans, before there are words, there are feelings — of being hollow, disconnected, stuck, or unseen. These are not yet cries for death, but whispers of disconnection from life.

Through Ari’s story and clinical reflection, we learn how to recognise these early warning threads and respond with presence, not panic. We explore how careful, curious questions can help surface what hurts — and what still matters.

This is where prevention begins: not in fixing, but in noticing.

Connect with Assoc Prof Manaan Kar Ray on Linkedin
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Transcript

EPISODE 2 — Frayed Beginnings: The Worn FABRIC

Predisposition and the Invisible Unravelling

Where suicide risk begins — quietly, invisibly. The worn strands no one notices… until they do.

[Intro Song Plays - The Worn Threads of FABRIC]
 

[Section 1: Welcome and Recap]

Hi everyone.
 Welcome back to the Protect podcast where we are exploring Steps 4 Hope, the fourth volume in the STEPS book series.

I'm Manaan and I am glad you're here—whether you're joining us again or just tuning in for the first time.

In this episode, we begin our journey through the STEPS framework—starting with the very first phase: FABRIC.
This phase explores predisposition—the quiet, early signs that someone’s emotional fabric may be beginning to fray.

[Section 2: Previous Episode Recap]

In our last episode, we met Ari.
 We traced her journey from the outside in—watching the slow, subtle unraveling of life’s weave.
 Ari’s story isn’t just hers—it mirrors the story of many people who carry pain in silence.

We also introduced the idea of the loom—the metaphor that holds this entire framework together.
 A loom stretches life’s threads into shape. But when those threads pull too tight—or begin to fray—it tells us something is shifting beneath the surface.

That’s what the STEPS framework is designed to notice.

[Section 3: Introducing the STEPS Framework and Weaving Metaphor]

So let’s take a step back before we move forward.

The STEPS framework maps out the progression of suicidal risk in six phases:

• FABRIC – predisposition
• THREAD – early ideation
• NEEDLE – sharpening intention
• TIP – tipping point
• MEND – the pause after an attempt
• FLOW – recovery in motion

Each step in this model captures a different kind of distress—a different shape of emotional pain.
 And each step invites us to respond differently.

That’s why we’ve paired each one with an acronym.
 The acronyms aren’t just memory tools—they’re guideposts.
 Because when you’re sitting with someone in deep distress, it’s easy to feel overwhelmed, unsure of what to ask or where to begin.

These acronyms help us slow down.
 They help us notice what hurts—and how we might ask about it gently, thoughtfully, and without rushing into safety plans or solutions too soon.

Today, we begin with FABRIC—the first fray.

SECTION 4 – ACRONYM EXPLORATION: FABRIC

"The fabric begins to fray before the pattern disappears."

FABRIC is not a checklist. It is a clinical metaphor — and a relational invitation — to notice the earliest signs of distress that precede suicidal ideation. These are not yet cries for death, but quiet signals of emotional wear. As clinicians, peers, or helpers, our task is to see the strain before the snap.

We begin by exploring the six emotional threads that often thin before risk becomes visible:

F — Fragile Sense of Self

When identity starts to wear thin, a person may feel hollowed out — unsure of who they are, or whether they still matter.

Clinical aim: Understand how the person sees themselves, and whether the weave of self-worth is holding.

Questions to explore:

• (Open): “How do you see yourself these days?”
• (Open): “When do you feel most unsure of who you are?”
• (Closed): “Are there things you used to feel confident about that now feel harder?”
• (Closed): “Do you still feel proud of anything you’ve done recently?”

Relational prompt:
“Sometimes people feel like a shadow of themselves. Has anything recently made you feel that way?”

Here, open questions invite narrative, emotion, and metaphor. If the person is silent or stuck, a closed question can provide a firmer foothold — not to corner them, but to gently orient the conversation. Open and closed questions are tools of rhythm — not just structure.

A — Alienation

Alienation is not just loneliness. It’s the ache of feeling invisible, even when surrounded. The relational tether loosens.

Clinical aim: Explore whether the person feels emotionally disconnected, unseen, or unimportant to others.

Questions to explore:

• (Open): “Even when you’re with others, do you sometimes feel alone?”
• (Open): “Have you pulled back from any people or places recently?”
• (Closed): “Do you feel emotionally close to anyone right now?”
• (Closed): “Have you been spending more time alone than usual?”

Relational prompt:
“Many people retreat when they’re in pain. Has that been happening for you?”

Asking into alienation requires warmth and care. Silence here isn’t resistance — it may be a reflection of relational exhaustion. When emotional distance is the wound, connection is part of the medicine.

B — Burdensomeness

When someone starts to feel like a weight — not just struggling, but believing they are the problem — the thread of worth begins to fray.

Clinical aim: Gently assess whether the person believes their existence creates harm or hardship for others.

Questions to explore:

• (Open): “What do you think others would say about the role you play in their lives?”
• (Closed): “Do you ever worry others would be better off without you?”
• (Closed): “Do you feel like your presence causes stress for people you care about?”

Relational prompt:
“It’s not uncommon for people in distress to feel like they’re a burden, even if others wouldn’t agree. Has that crossed your mind?”

The key here is not to argue with the belief, but to explore its emotional roots. These questions often surface deep shame. Sitting with that shame without rushing to reassure builds trust.

R — Repetitive Rumination

This is the mental echo — the loop of blame, self-criticism, or intrusive thought that never lets up.

Clinical aim: Identify cognitive patterns that trap the person in self-directed pain or helplessness.

Questions to explore:

• (Open): “Do certain thoughts keep looping in your mind?”
• (Open): “When something goes wrong, where does your mind usually go?”
• (Closed): “Have your thoughts become more self-critical lately?”
• (Closed): “Do you find it hard to stop beating yourself up?”

Relational prompt:
“When distressed, some people feel like their mind becomes an echo chamber. Has that ever felt true for you?”

Open questions allow you to follow the thread of thought. Closed ones help when the person is stuck inside the loop. Ruminative pain is often wrapped in silence — these questions offer a way to speak what has been circling.

I — Inescapable Circumstances

Here, the person feels emotionally or practically trapped — as though all exits are blocked.

Clinical aim: Understand whether the person feels boxed in, stuck, or powerless to change their life.

Questions to explore:

• (Open): “What do you see as the next step, if any?”
• (Open): “Have you felt like you’ve tried everything and nothing has worked?”
• (Closed): “Do you feel like your situation is unchangeable?”
• (Closed): “Have you felt helpless — like there’s no way out?”

Relational prompt:
“Feeling stuck can be one of the hardest things. Would it be okay if we explored what’s making things feel so tight right now?”

When someone cannot see a future, our role is not to force one — but to sit beside the stuckness, and gently hold the space open.

C — Curtain of Despair

The future fades. Not just in hope, but in visibility. It becomes blank, colourless, unreachable.

Clinical aim: Explore whether the person can still imagine anything ahead — even a moment of relief, beauty, or change.

Questions to explore:

• (Open): “When you think about the future, what comes to mind?”
• (Open): “Has it become hard to picture anything beyond this pain?”
• (Closed): “Do you believe things could ever get better?”
• (Closed): “Have you lost the ability to imagine feeling okay again?”

Relational prompt:
“It can feel like the light at the end of the tunnel has gone out. Has it started to feel that way for you?”

When hopelessness sets in, it is not enough to counter with optimism. We listen, not to fix, but to witness the dimming. And to hold space for even the faintest flicker.

THE ART OF ASKING

The questions we ask in the FABRIC phase are not diagnostic tools — they are acts of relational noticing. They help us understand not only what hurts, but how pain is worn.

Balancing open and closed questions:

• Open questions create space — they allow the person to narrate, interpret, and shape their story in their own words. They communicate curiosity, not control.
• Closed questions provide footholds — especially when the person feels flooded, frozen, or unsure where to begin. They can gently narrow the lens without shutting the person down.
• Sequence matters. Start open. Listen for themes. Shift to closed only when clarity is needed, or when the person seems overwhelmed by too much space.
• Follow-ups deepen meaning. Almost any closed question can be followed with:
  “Can you tell me a little more about that?”
  or “What makes you feel that way?”

FABRIC is not a race toward a safety plan. It is a way of pausing at the first sign of threadbare emotion and saying, with presence:

“I see the fray. And I’m not turning away.”

[Section 5: Ari’s Story Segment – Worn Strands in the Weave]

Let’s come back to Ari.

Her cloth was never pristine—but it held.

In childhood, she sparkled with curiosity.
 She asked bold questions, made strange but thoughtful connections, noticed when others were hurting.
 There was warmth in her weave—softness, sensitivity, a hunger to understand the world.

But even then, something in the threads felt stretched.
 From an early age, Ari measured herself against others.
 She wondered if she was too much—too emotional, too intense, too sensitive.
And at the same time, she feared she was not enough.
Not loud enough to be seen. Not strong enough to belong.
This tension at her core—between self-doubt and yearning—slowly thinned her sense of identity.
The F in FABRIC—her fragile sense of self—was already beginning to wear.

By the time she hit high school, the world around her had grown louder, faster, more complex.
 She was kind, but quiet.
 Present, but rarely chosen.
 Not bullied. Not rejected. Just… not held.

In class, she answered thoughtfully—but not often enough to be noticed.
 At parties, she was invited—but never sought out.
 In photos, she stood at the edge—smiling, but slightly apart.
 Over time, her place in the weave loosened.
 The A in FABRIC—alienation—set in like a slow drift.

By eighteen, the loneliness had become internalised.
 She didn’t want to trouble anyone with how she was really feeling.
 She told herself: “Other people have it worse. I shouldn’t complain.”
 But beneath that self-silencing was a belief growing roots—
 That maybe, just maybe, she was more weight than worth.
That her sadness was too much. That her presence might even be a strain.
This is how the B in FABRIC appears—burdensomeness.
Not as a cry for help, but as a quiet decision to shrink herself down.

And inside, her thoughts began to spiral.
 “You’re always letting people down.”
 “You should be over this by now.”
 “You’re too sensitive. You’re not coping properly.”
 These weren’t just passing thoughts—they looped.
 Over and over.
 Even when she tried to think differently, the voice returned.
 Critical. Repetitive. Exhausting.
 The R—repetitive rumination—dug deep.
A single thread, rubbing the same spot raw.

Then came the winter that broke everything open.

Her parents separated suddenly—no warning, just a fracture.
 Her health faltered—an autoimmune diagnosis, unpredictable and draining.
 And just as she was trying to adjust, her job disappeared.
 Gone, with a single email.

She tried to keep moving, to find options.
 But every path forward seemed blocked.
 She’d send applications and hear nothing.
 She’d ask for support and get silence.
 She began to believe that no effort could make a difference.
 That she was boxed in.
 That nothing would change.
 This is the I in FABRIC—inescapable circumstances.
That feeling of being stuck, not just in situation, but in the story itself.

And finally, the colours began to fade.

Music, once her refuge, felt hollow.
 Her dreams—vivid and vibrant—dissolved into grey outlines.
 She woke in the mornings not with dread, but with nothing.
 Just heaviness. Stillness.
 She couldn’t picture a future—not because she didn’t want one,
 but because it no longer had shape or light.
 That’s the C—the curtain of despair.
Ari wasn’t thinking about dying.
She just couldn’t imagine living.

And this—this is often where we meet someone like Ari.

Not when things first begin to fray…
 but when the cloth is threadbare, close to tearing.
 When the person is still functioning—still showing up to class, still smiling when spoken to—
 but inside, they are unravelling.

And this is where FABRIC matters most.

Because FABRIC helps us notice.
It helps us tune in to those first signs—the thinning self, the fading connection, the growing belief that one is a burden.
It helps us ask—not just “Are you okay?” but “Where does it hurt?”

As clinicians, carers, companions—we don’t need to take over the loom.
 We don’t need to fix the pattern.
 But we can sit beside it.

We can say:
 “I see where the threads are pulling.”
 “I see how long you’ve been holding this together.”

Because what hurts the most is almost always tied to what matters the most.
 And when we help someone name that pain—when we honour it, hold it, explore it—
 we begin the slow work of reweaving.

One stitch at a time.

[Section 6: Closing Song and Reflection]

Before we close today’s episode, take a moment.

Think about someone you know—
 Ari, or maybe yourself—whose fabric might be thinning quietly.

What might it mean to sit beside that person—not with advice or fixes, but with presence?

FABRIC reminds us:
 Prevention isn’t always loud.
 Sometimes, it’s quiet care, gently offered—
 One stitch at a time.

Thank you for being here.
 Thank you for holding space.

Next time, we’ll move into THREAD—the first appearance of suicidal ideation, and how to gently respond when the idea of death begins to whisper.

But for now, here’s a song to close our time together—woven from Ari’s story, and the threads we’ve traced today.

[Closing Song Plays - The Worn Threads of FABRIC]