Greeting death and saying goodbye

CN: in depth discussion of poor mental health and suicide

Suicide is something that visits my thoughts frequently. Usually I can ignore it, or at least tolerate it, but sometimes it’s so loud that it completely occupies my mind, leaving no space for rationality. It’s moments like these that death becomes a comforting friend, and an escape from the chaos.

Since the first time I tried to take my own life, I’ve always felt it was important to leave my loved ones with one final conversation. One that they’ll have no opportunity to reply to but one that will hopefully provide some closure or, at the very least, an explanation.

The first time I wrote a suicide note, I was about 15. I don’t have this letter anymore, but it doesn’t really matter as I still remember the thoughts, feelings and sentiments that went into it. Looking back now, despite this being an awful time, I can’t help but laugh. I’d written a letter to each person that had a major impact on my life, and each letter was drenched in immaturity and teen angst. Some of the letters were heartfelt, where I told the individuals how much I loved them, how it wasn’t their fault and that they’d be better of without me. However, some of these letters were fuelled by minor misunderstandings. I called my friends, who I very much love, bitches and I told them that I hated them because they hated me and that they were fake so, not only would they be greeted by the death of a friend, but the death of a friend who had thought they were hated.

My most recent note was written over a year ago, and while there was definitely still an air of immaturity given that I was just approaching the end of my teenage years, it was much less dramatic and more tired. By this time, my mental health had been, and to some extent still is, controlling my life. Aside from hospital admissions and countless appointments, I had little to no trust from my family, short sleeves were seemingly out of the question owing to both my scars and my abysmal body image, my ability to focus was poor at best, and so much more. This, along with being told that these were the best years of my life, makes it easy to see why I’d be so tired of living and why the future just didn’t seem worth it. In my most recent suicide note I told my loved ones just how much I loved them, how this would be better that watching me suffer and, most importantly, how it wasn’t their fault.

Despite the obvious differences, the one thing that these letters have in common is the writing process. I’d imagine sitting down with every person I’d addressed a letter to, and I’d say the first things that came to mind so only my truest and deepest thoughts would be said. The whole process would leave me crying, as I imagine I would if I were to actually have any of these conversations face-to-face. Afterwards, I’d be completely drained. Not only was I expressing how I was feeling, but I was imagining how they’d feel too. What I think is most striking about that is, even after this process which left me physically and emotionally drained and with so much empathic concern, I was never put off because I still thought it would be the best option for everyone.

Looking back at my letters, I may have been misguided, and angsty, and completely senseless, but it was always done with the thought that everyone would be better off if I didn’t exist.  While I hope I won’t have to write any more of these letters in the future, I do want to leave you with some final words:

Suicide isn’t selfish and don’t f***ing tell me otherwise.