Open Letter from a Suicidal Girl

It’s that time of the year again. Like an impending storm, the gathering clouds on the horizon, the sun fading and darkness seeping in – my depression is at its strongest in the winter and already, even before the autumn leaves turn brown and wither, I feel myself slipping.

I’ve done a spectacular job so far in maintaining my upbeat and effulgent attitude in public and being a fun presence around my friends, but the burgeoning anguish beneath that thinning veneer is thrashing, beating against the cracks and I cannot – I just cannot – hold up these walls any longer.

The dam is breaking and water is crashing in.

I’m exhausted. Depression is enervating. I can feel it creeping in my bones, I feel its weight on my shoulders, compressing and forcing down my head, turning my thoughts inwards, as if it’s saying, “Look at yourself. Just look at yourself and see everything that you’re not.”

“How can you live with yourself?”

“No one cares about you. Why would they? You’re the worst. You’re a burden. You’re a waste. No one loves you; they just pity you.”

“Just die.”

“Just die, already.”

“Please, just die.”

I’m terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me. – Sylvia Plath

 

Would anyone miss me?

I’ve left passive cries for help. No one noticed so far. Or maybe they did, but didn’t act on them.

Do I want them to? No, I don’t want to bother them.

(Please reach out to me)

I don’t want to unload my ugliness upon them and overwhelm them.

(Please reassure me that you accept me, the good and bad)

I’ve spent too much time sequestered in my head, churning in these sour and smothering thoughts and the familiarity of the blackness comforts me.

And I want to be consumed completely. Because I’ve given up.

Please give me the courage to end everything. I know, I’m making someone else do the dirty work; metaphorically placing the gun in their hands, begging them to shoot me. Shoot me.

Because I can’t do it myself.

Is this a cry for help? Probably.

I desire nothingness but the thought of hurtling down stories, the wind berating my face, and colliding with immense force in an explosion of pain with the pavement makes my toes curl in terror. Overdosing on pills is not an option because I know that it’s a painfully drawn-out process that can span for days. I can’t summon the courage to push the knife deep enough into my pale wrist, deep enough to sever the wispy blue veins – maybe because the thing that I want to cut out of me is not those blue lines, but the monster within.

So what do I do?

I am stuck.

But I am drawn more strongly than ever, to the void. To the reassurance of absolute nothingness. To be able to feel nothing, to not think anymore, to not BE anymore.

I think I’m closer to being ready. Ready to go.

I have a loose plan.

It already started.

I penned my goodbye letter to my significant other.

I will start writing letters to friends next.

Or maybe I shouldn’t, because they might take that as a sad, clawing attempt to garner their sympathy and attention.

I’m going to leave my job. I’ll write instruction manuals so that my coworkers won’t be completely lost when I leave my role.

I’m going to write a check with all my savings to my mother. I’ll leave additional money to my significant other, who might need it to clear out my belongings from our apartment.

I thought about these steps for a while. I won’t execute them right away, but I will carry out each step as I get closer to giving up completely.

Will anyone miss me?

Please don’t miss me.

(Please do)

Please don’t get upset.

(I hope that our time together meant something to you)

Please leave me.

(Please help me.)

 

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