LaVieEnRose
Angelic
- Jul 23, 2022
- 4,181
This is the final suicide letter a user on the old Reddit forum left behind before she died, several years ago. I was glad to find it recently in the archives because my memory of it wasn't doing it justice. And I do think it's worth sharing here. So here is the text:
"In these final moments, I feel a pristine glass wall looming ahead, unseen. Waiting for my feet to take their final steps and carry me crashing into it.
As ridiculous as this sounds, what bothers me the most right now is that my passing will be tagged as the result of mental illness, chalked up with pity and scorn to a tragedy sad, preventable, and unnecessary. Whatever I try to write down to leave for my loved ones is inadequate; I know how they think, what they believe. They'll still think me irrational, still disagree, never understand.
Thing is, I don't disagree with the implication that this is not the only choice I have to make. This is not the only way out for me. I can certainly choose to remain alive, and probably with success. Society is horrid for the most part, yet I see the beauty that remains in it. It's almost as beautiful as sunlight on my face while I smoke a cigarette first thing in the morning, or the sweet, familiar smell of a dusty book. Or groaning ice sheets, which shatter into sparkling ice chips above the awesome might of a spring flood.
To put it much too simply: for me, it's a matter of costs versus benefits. Misery largely outweighs happiness, which occurs like a splatter of stars in the sky, the beautiful exception to the norm. I know life isn't like this for most people. Something inside me is missing. It's been missing for as long as I know. The will to live. Fear of death, of my own mortality. Interest in following the rules necessary to be a productive member of society. While I have so much empathy it physically hurts sometimes, I have little happiness. My baseline for it seems to be set at a bar far lower than most.
I've tried several different combinations of medications over the years, visited several different mental health professionals. By and large, they smothered my feelings. Sure, some of them silenced the depression and anxiety... along with everything else. Strangely, over the past year I've grown to love myself, to accept myself for who I am, to appreciate what I have to contribute and what I have around me. Becoming a member of this subreddit has helped me achieve this. It's shown me there are others like me out there, that it's okay to be who I am. Being here has shown me to think about and solidify my beliefs, to think long and hard about whether they're rational or not, about how to explain them and defend them.
Despite all this, my decision remains unchanged. The last couple months, I've put forth extra effort and care into my relationships, done things I never would've done when I was younger: delivered emergency chicken noodle soup to a sick coworker at 3 AM, surreptitiously dropped half my tips for a couple weeks all around a struggling friend's house so she could pay for formula, rent. I've woken up at 4 AM make it in time to my favorite smoke spot to watch the sun rise because I knew its performances were numbered for me. I've run three miles to a basic stranger's house to watch his sleeping toddlers (whom I'd never met, and don't care for as a rule) so he could take his wife to the hospital, who was in premature labor.
I've made friendships. Made people smile. Made myself smile. I could very well continue. There are sunrises to watch, music festivals to attend, books to read and adventures to have, but those are like stars in the sky. The blackness in the sky, all the times in between, watching the stars while trapped in a lonely, empty vacuum, it's not worth it to me.
I don't want to go alone. Carrying on as normal for so long has drained me. Constantly reminding myself to remember future tense, to continue making plans as normal, give no indication I have any intention on carrying them out has shredded my insides. I hate being so dishonest and keeping so many secrets. I hate thinking about the pain soon to consume them, despite the fact it'll be irrelevant to me then. I hate not being able to tell a soul, never having had anybody to talk to about this. I don't expect anybody to be by my side when the time comes, but a part of me feels this deep, raw yearning to confide in another person like an empty stomach which spits and roars to be fed.
If I had the right words to say to the ones I'm leaving behind, I would. But I have nothing."
"In these final moments, I feel a pristine glass wall looming ahead, unseen. Waiting for my feet to take their final steps and carry me crashing into it.
As ridiculous as this sounds, what bothers me the most right now is that my passing will be tagged as the result of mental illness, chalked up with pity and scorn to a tragedy sad, preventable, and unnecessary. Whatever I try to write down to leave for my loved ones is inadequate; I know how they think, what they believe. They'll still think me irrational, still disagree, never understand.
Thing is, I don't disagree with the implication that this is not the only choice I have to make. This is not the only way out for me. I can certainly choose to remain alive, and probably with success. Society is horrid for the most part, yet I see the beauty that remains in it. It's almost as beautiful as sunlight on my face while I smoke a cigarette first thing in the morning, or the sweet, familiar smell of a dusty book. Or groaning ice sheets, which shatter into sparkling ice chips above the awesome might of a spring flood.
To put it much too simply: for me, it's a matter of costs versus benefits. Misery largely outweighs happiness, which occurs like a splatter of stars in the sky, the beautiful exception to the norm. I know life isn't like this for most people. Something inside me is missing. It's been missing for as long as I know. The will to live. Fear of death, of my own mortality. Interest in following the rules necessary to be a productive member of society. While I have so much empathy it physically hurts sometimes, I have little happiness. My baseline for it seems to be set at a bar far lower than most.
I've tried several different combinations of medications over the years, visited several different mental health professionals. By and large, they smothered my feelings. Sure, some of them silenced the depression and anxiety... along with everything else. Strangely, over the past year I've grown to love myself, to accept myself for who I am, to appreciate what I have to contribute and what I have around me. Becoming a member of this subreddit has helped me achieve this. It's shown me there are others like me out there, that it's okay to be who I am. Being here has shown me to think about and solidify my beliefs, to think long and hard about whether they're rational or not, about how to explain them and defend them.
Despite all this, my decision remains unchanged. The last couple months, I've put forth extra effort and care into my relationships, done things I never would've done when I was younger: delivered emergency chicken noodle soup to a sick coworker at 3 AM, surreptitiously dropped half my tips for a couple weeks all around a struggling friend's house so she could pay for formula, rent. I've woken up at 4 AM make it in time to my favorite smoke spot to watch the sun rise because I knew its performances were numbered for me. I've run three miles to a basic stranger's house to watch his sleeping toddlers (whom I'd never met, and don't care for as a rule) so he could take his wife to the hospital, who was in premature labor.
I've made friendships. Made people smile. Made myself smile. I could very well continue. There are sunrises to watch, music festivals to attend, books to read and adventures to have, but those are like stars in the sky. The blackness in the sky, all the times in between, watching the stars while trapped in a lonely, empty vacuum, it's not worth it to me.
I don't want to go alone. Carrying on as normal for so long has drained me. Constantly reminding myself to remember future tense, to continue making plans as normal, give no indication I have any intention on carrying them out has shredded my insides. I hate being so dishonest and keeping so many secrets. I hate thinking about the pain soon to consume them, despite the fact it'll be irrelevant to me then. I hate not being able to tell a soul, never having had anybody to talk to about this. I don't expect anybody to be by my side when the time comes, but a part of me feels this deep, raw yearning to confide in another person like an empty stomach which spits and roars to be fed.
If I had the right words to say to the ones I'm leaving behind, I would. But I have nothing."
