I can't remember when I started to feel deeply unwell. When I was a sophomore, six years ago, I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder and Anxiety. Deep down, I already knew something was wrong with me. I think I've always hated myself, even as a child. So, when the doctor confirmed I had depression, I didn't feel relieved. He prescribed me Escitalopram and Clonazepam. For a few months, it helped… but soon enough, I was back to feeling worthless, like there was no point in living. I became reckless with my meds and overdosed on Clonazepam. After that, I was forced to see another doctor, as I had turned my first one into nothing more than a dealer. The new psychiatrist prescribed me medication that didn't require a prescription (this is possible in Mexico). I can't even recall the name—maybe Venlafaxine? I only visited him once.
The following year, the world fell apart, as you know: the COVID-19 pandemic. We were forced to finish college online, which wrecked my mental health all over again. Between classes, I wrote about what might be the best way to end it all and what scenarios might unfold after my body was found. Yet, that time of despair also brought profound introspection about life and the choice to die. Nobody chooses to be born, so why does society deny us the only real way to exercise freedom? Dying should be a choice, the ultimate expression of liberty, free from restrictions.
Why should terminal illness be the only acceptable justification for suicide? I believe anyone who reaches a certain age (perhaps the legal age in their country) should have the right to choose freedom. The state should have no say—at least not in most cases—over people's lives. I understand that traditions shape us. The Western world, heavily influenced by Judeo-Christian values, views life as sacred. That's why, whenever I share my thoughts with those closest to me, their responses always revolve around how my death would affect them. I get it. If I die, they'll suffer.
Death is simple to grasp; grief is not. After finishing college in 2021, I found myself consumed with anger at my own existence. That winter, my suicidal thoughts intensified. In Mexico, as in other Hispanic countries, we eat twelve grapes at midnight on New Year's Eve—one for each month of the coming year, symbolizing resolutions. I only ate one. For January, I pleaded with God: Let this be my last month. God seemed to hear my prayer, but not in the way I expected.
The day after my birthday (January 19th), my mother fell ill. Initially, she was diagnosed with a stomach infection and sent home. But within two days, her condition worsened, and the medication wasn't working. My dad and I begged her to return to the hospital, but she kept repeating words that still haunt me: "I don't want to go. I'm afraid I won't come back." I lied to her, saying, "Everything's going to be fine." I hugged her, and she finally agreed. That Saturday afternoon was the last time she set foot in our home.
She died ten days later, on February 1st. To this day, I hate myself for two reasons. First, during her time in the hospital, I avoided visiting her while she was conscious—I missed my chance to say goodbye. Second, all I could think about was the logistics of her funeral: who might attend, how my friends might support me, and so on.
The months that followed were brutal. I attempted suicide twice with 60 pills of Venlafaxine—nothing happened. If you know antidepressants, you'll know that overdosing on Venlafaxine only causes mild effects. Around that time, I decided to rekindle my dream of becoming a writer. I started writing daily. I also tried making new friends, and they, along with my best friend, encouraged me to give therapy one last shot. This time, I started cognitive behavioral therapy and saw a new psychiatrist who prescribed me Bupropion and Mirtazapine.
By summer, I felt better. I got a new job in another city and moved away, leaving behind the cold memories of my mother, my father, my older sister, and our two dogs. Everything felt new—even happiness and the desire to pursue a relationship. But nothing lasts forever.
In January of this year, the psychiatrist took me off medication. My treatment had concluded. Over the past couple of years, I was supposed to be working intensively with my therapist to develop mindfulness skills and emotional regulation. Yet, for some reason, I couldn't bring myself to be honest during my weekly sessions. I was more stressed about my growing financial irresponsibility, living paycheck to paycheck. Therapy felt useless.
My suicidal thoughts have returned. I must admit that I left something out earlier: there's a third thought that has lingered since my mother's death—Why her and not me? She should have been the one mourning my death, not the other way around. For my 2024 New Year's resolution, I wrote a single line as my tenth goal: Que este sea mi último año (Let this be my last year).
Months ago, I chose a date: Friday, December 20th, 2024. Why that date? It's simple: it's the last day before the Christmas break, which runs until January 6th. And why a Friday? Over the past few weeks, I've realized that my absence goes unnoticed on weekends. Everyone is busy with their own lives. If someone texts me on a Friday afternoon or Saturday and I don't reply, nothing happens until Monday—when they usually reach out for work-related reasons.
I've been lonely for so long that even my closest friends no longer have the energy or motivation to figure out why I'm not responding; they've grown used to it. To clarify, I am open about my thoughts with my two best friends. So, I think that Friday is the best time.
And how will I do it? With a 300 mg dose of Mirtazapine, a bottle of vodka, and three cans of Monster Energy. You should know that I was diagnosed with Marfan syndrome when I was six. While I've only needed surgery for eye-related issues, my aorta is dilated at 4.3 cm. So, I think I have a chance.
For the next twelve days, I want to dedicate myself to writing: my thoughts, my reasons, maybe developing old story prompts, and so on. I won't be rigid during this time. I'll argue with myself—whether I truly want to go through with it or if perhaps I want to stay a little longer, try to publish something, and continue fighting for the right to die.
(If my English is not good that's because it isn't my first language)
The following year, the world fell apart, as you know: the COVID-19 pandemic. We were forced to finish college online, which wrecked my mental health all over again. Between classes, I wrote about what might be the best way to end it all and what scenarios might unfold after my body was found. Yet, that time of despair also brought profound introspection about life and the choice to die. Nobody chooses to be born, so why does society deny us the only real way to exercise freedom? Dying should be a choice, the ultimate expression of liberty, free from restrictions.
Why should terminal illness be the only acceptable justification for suicide? I believe anyone who reaches a certain age (perhaps the legal age in their country) should have the right to choose freedom. The state should have no say—at least not in most cases—over people's lives. I understand that traditions shape us. The Western world, heavily influenced by Judeo-Christian values, views life as sacred. That's why, whenever I share my thoughts with those closest to me, their responses always revolve around how my death would affect them. I get it. If I die, they'll suffer.
Death is simple to grasp; grief is not. After finishing college in 2021, I found myself consumed with anger at my own existence. That winter, my suicidal thoughts intensified. In Mexico, as in other Hispanic countries, we eat twelve grapes at midnight on New Year's Eve—one for each month of the coming year, symbolizing resolutions. I only ate one. For January, I pleaded with God: Let this be my last month. God seemed to hear my prayer, but not in the way I expected.
The day after my birthday (January 19th), my mother fell ill. Initially, she was diagnosed with a stomach infection and sent home. But within two days, her condition worsened, and the medication wasn't working. My dad and I begged her to return to the hospital, but she kept repeating words that still haunt me: "I don't want to go. I'm afraid I won't come back." I lied to her, saying, "Everything's going to be fine." I hugged her, and she finally agreed. That Saturday afternoon was the last time she set foot in our home.
She died ten days later, on February 1st. To this day, I hate myself for two reasons. First, during her time in the hospital, I avoided visiting her while she was conscious—I missed my chance to say goodbye. Second, all I could think about was the logistics of her funeral: who might attend, how my friends might support me, and so on.
The months that followed were brutal. I attempted suicide twice with 60 pills of Venlafaxine—nothing happened. If you know antidepressants, you'll know that overdosing on Venlafaxine only causes mild effects. Around that time, I decided to rekindle my dream of becoming a writer. I started writing daily. I also tried making new friends, and they, along with my best friend, encouraged me to give therapy one last shot. This time, I started cognitive behavioral therapy and saw a new psychiatrist who prescribed me Bupropion and Mirtazapine.
By summer, I felt better. I got a new job in another city and moved away, leaving behind the cold memories of my mother, my father, my older sister, and our two dogs. Everything felt new—even happiness and the desire to pursue a relationship. But nothing lasts forever.
In January of this year, the psychiatrist took me off medication. My treatment had concluded. Over the past couple of years, I was supposed to be working intensively with my therapist to develop mindfulness skills and emotional regulation. Yet, for some reason, I couldn't bring myself to be honest during my weekly sessions. I was more stressed about my growing financial irresponsibility, living paycheck to paycheck. Therapy felt useless.
My suicidal thoughts have returned. I must admit that I left something out earlier: there's a third thought that has lingered since my mother's death—Why her and not me? She should have been the one mourning my death, not the other way around. For my 2024 New Year's resolution, I wrote a single line as my tenth goal: Que este sea mi último año (Let this be my last year).
Months ago, I chose a date: Friday, December 20th, 2024. Why that date? It's simple: it's the last day before the Christmas break, which runs until January 6th. And why a Friday? Over the past few weeks, I've realized that my absence goes unnoticed on weekends. Everyone is busy with their own lives. If someone texts me on a Friday afternoon or Saturday and I don't reply, nothing happens until Monday—when they usually reach out for work-related reasons.
I've been lonely for so long that even my closest friends no longer have the energy or motivation to figure out why I'm not responding; they've grown used to it. To clarify, I am open about my thoughts with my two best friends. So, I think that Friday is the best time.
And how will I do it? With a 300 mg dose of Mirtazapine, a bottle of vodka, and three cans of Monster Energy. You should know that I was diagnosed with Marfan syndrome when I was six. While I've only needed surgery for eye-related issues, my aorta is dilated at 4.3 cm. So, I think I have a chance.
For the next twelve days, I want to dedicate myself to writing: my thoughts, my reasons, maybe developing old story prompts, and so on. I won't be rigid during this time. I'll argue with myself—whether I truly want to go through with it or if perhaps I want to stay a little longer, try to publish something, and continue fighting for the right to die.
(If my English is not good that's because it isn't my first language)
