It was a Saturday morning and no one was home but me. I was alone in my room listening to some sad music from some indie rock band my friend introduced to me. I had just finished writing the first draft of my suicide note and I wasn’t satisfied with it. Knowing me, I had to edit, rewrite, edit. I wanted to sound witty, even funny but my attempts at humor was just laughable. “Get your shit together,” I said to myself. This would be the last thing people would remember me for and I didn’t want them checking my suicide note for grammatical errors or worse confuse them even more as to the “why” of it all. Pathetic right? I’m on the verge of killing myself and all I could still think of is what people will think of me.
Why? I’m pretty sure that’d be the first thing people would ask. But do these people really deserve to know the answer?
That’s probably the most annoying thing about all of it. People will tell you to just be yourself but then they’ll judge you for who you are. That’s so fucked up right?
It’s hard to put into words how much pain you’re in, I couldn’t find the right words to justify what I’m feeling or what I’m going through. Maybe I just don’t know enough words in the dictionary and thesaurus is no help at all. I guess I’ve reached a point in my life where I just don’t care anymore. I lost all hope and when hope is lost there’s nothing more to live for.
The sun was shining outside, a beautiful day – too beautiful for me so I shut the blinds and closed the window behind it. Light seeped through nonetheless. A sign? I asked myself. The light at the end of the tunnel? Maybe. Only I was walking towards from it.
I thought about ending my life then and there. No chances of being rescued or rushed to the hospital when my parents arrive. I’d be dead on the scene and there’s no way the doctors could revive my life.
I was told that when you decide to slit your wrists you should do it vertically so you’d bleed sooner and faster – the more popular saying is, “It’s down the road, not across the street.” It’ll be slow and painful, not to mention messy – maybe that’s why in the movies, people who commit suicide always do it in the bathroom because the cleanup would be easier. Imagine bleeding to death in a rug or hardwood floor, I’d be annoyed if I’m the one who’s going to clean that shit up.
I was looking for a way out and death was my only option. I was tired, I’d grown weary and there was nothing more I could do. I was helpless and I thought that ending my life could make all my problems go away. I was wrong.
I was a foolish kid. I didn’t know better.
I had too many problems coming all at once. Whatever those problems were I couldn’t remember them anymore. All I know is I had the weight of the world on my shoulders and I couldn’t carry it anymore.