If you have to put a lot of thought into your suicide letter, then you aren't ready to die. By the time you pick up the blade or that bottle of pills, crank the car or tie the knot in the rope, step into the street or over the edge -- you know exactly what you'd want to say or what you'd wished you'd said. If you have to sit and think about who you love the most and what you want them to know then you're not ready to die.
At least, not a fulfilling death.
Unfinished business is the worst kind. And it makes people suffer more. All the unspoken words are harder to hear from beyond the veil, especially when the words come as whispers creeping across the pillow in our dreams at night. Love isn't as strong or comforting when you have no way to give it to that person.
If anything, the others are selfish for making you stay. They won't understand the rush you experience with ending it all. How it feels to drag that blade across your skin and watch the little red rubies seep out, what it's like to watch the world from beneath the water until your eyes glaze over, the way the wind feels blowing through your hair on the descent. Those moments are when you feel most alive. Denying you of that -- that one moment of adventure -- is cruel.
If you have to sit and ponder whether or not writing a letter is a good idea, then you're not ready to go. It's not like there's a prerequisite to death. Writing the letter, not writing the letter -- you're dead either way. It doesn't change based upon whether or not you made a suicide note, recorded a video and left it in the VCR, or just have someone stumble upon your body at three in the morning. You are dead.
People who say suicide is selfish are not always right. For some the choice is selfish, but for others it isn't. It's a matter of perspective. I promise you that at least half of people who shuffle in front of oncoming traffic or drink down vodka to chase the bottle of sleeping pills had their final thoughts of the ones they love. After all, while you're laying on the bed for hours waiting for the pills to slowly take you away, what're you supposed to do? Play solitaire?
If you have to pause and consider whether or not to write in pencil or ink, you aren't ready to die. Do you think your loved ones care if the tears smudge the ink? I'm sure a lot of them through anger would tear up the letter anyway in a moment of confusion before coming back hours, weeks, years later to tape it back together and hope that comfort can be found there. Solace. Understanding.
Denial.
They've found your body resting on the couch, on the bed, curled up in the fetal position on the floor with scattered photographs of friends around your head like a halo.
"They aren't really dead, they're just sleeping."
They've found your body in the lake where you crashed your car, driving over the bridge at a speed that's ridiculously high.
"They aren't dead yet, just do CPR."
They've found your body slumped on the bathroom floor, hunched in the corner of the closet, sitting in the car with jagged cuts across your wrists.
"They aren't dead, they've not lost enough blood -- call 911."
They will make any and every excuse to believe anything but the truth. And then it takes a major turn.
Anger.
"Why me? Why my pills? Dammit, did they not care about what I would think?"
"God, why did you let them drive over the damn bridge? Why didn't you stop them? Carry the car to the shore and prevent them from drowning?"
"Selfish bastard. Leaving me here alone, forgetting who their friends are, forgetting who got them this far."
Maybe the anger lasts for only a moment. Maybe it lasts for several weeks. Maybe, in some sense, it never truly goes away. But eventually it does fade long enough that they're left wishing they'd said or done things that they'd neglected to do or wishing they hadn't said or done things that they'd done. Maybe they start blaming themselves in illogical ways. If they had taken their medication with them every time they left the house this wouldn't have happened, if they hadn't left them home alone with the car they wouldn't have drove it over the bridge to their death, if they hadn't left the razor out in plain sight in the bathroom they wouldn't have cut themselves to end it all -- what if. You can what if yourself to death.
What if they knew just how much I loved them?
What if I had just called while I was out of the house and had a moment to talk?
What if....
Depression.
What ifs prevent you from living. You spend all your time wondering if you had done something differently then maybe they would still be alive. You don't have the energy to survive -- your mind goes to that same dark place that theirs traveled through not so long ago. You realize exactly what they meant. That all the twisted, demented, unorthodox things make a lot of sense when you're wandering those paths yourself. Life is darker. The things that once held meaning suddenly don't make much sense at all. You get frustrated at the simplest tasks, cry for no reason, become bitter, shelter yourself from the world and soon the friends that were on your side trying to help you save the one you loved are all now trying to help you.
How do you respond? Pushing them away, telling them you're fine when really as soon as you hang up you dissolve into tears, clutch fiercely to a liquor bottle, examine the gun you've kept for years for self-protection but now wonder if it has an ultimately better use.
Maybe in time you get better. You go searching for meaning, a friend pulls you out of the dark abyss, and you get help. Maybe, at long last, rays of light are breaking through the dense canopy of thought and bringing hope. Maybe you learn to accept what happened and that it wasn't your fault. It was their choice.
But real life is not always happily-ever-after. While you can get better, not everyone does.
Maybe you finally do pick up that gun and put it in your mouth, running your tongue over the barrel and marveling at the taste of ash in your mouth from when you fired it once to test the recoil in case a burgler ever did come in. The metal's cold and you just don't care and, in the back of your mind, there's the curiosity if it'll hurt and if you'll live long enough to see if you really did have any brains. Maybe they'll splatter across the wall, over the floor, maybe you'll see all the twisted and ugly thoughts blast away with the single pull of the trigger and before you die things will make sense.
Say you do pull the trigger. You called a friend but they didn't answer. Or they answered and said they were 'too busy to talk.' You went to someone's house to talk to them and they weren't home. Worse yet, they didn't come to the door because they never know what to say when you're upset. Say you do these things and you think it's because they don't love you.
If they don't love you, they never did.
You don't pause for thought. You grab the gun, crying and shaking, fumble on the trigger and then the shot rings out and the pain is brief and the room fades almost at once. Game over.
If you feel like this and don't know where to go or how to word it in your suicide letter, maybe you're not ready to die. Maybe you're looking for that ray of light to shoot through the smallest gap between the branches of doubt, fear, regret, loneliness, hopelessness -- whatever burdens you carry. If you feel like you don't know where you're going, that your footsteps are taking you in circles, why not walk with your arms outstretched and see if a friend takes your hand and pulls you into an embrace?
If you have to think about the letter, perhaps it's because you shouldn't be writing it.
At least, not a fulfilling death.
Unfinished business is the worst kind. And it makes people suffer more. All the unspoken words are harder to hear from beyond the veil, especially when the words come as whispers creeping across the pillow in our dreams at night. Love isn't as strong or comforting when you have no way to give it to that person.
If anything, the others are selfish for making you stay. They won't understand the rush you experience with ending it all. How it feels to drag that blade across your skin and watch the little red rubies seep out, what it's like to watch the world from beneath the water until your eyes glaze over, the way the wind feels blowing through your hair on the descent. Those moments are when you feel most alive. Denying you of that -- that one moment of adventure -- is cruel.
If you have to sit and ponder whether or not writing a letter is a good idea, then you're not ready to go. It's not like there's a prerequisite to death. Writing the letter, not writing the letter -- you're dead either way. It doesn't change based upon whether or not you made a suicide note, recorded a video and left it in the VCR, or just have someone stumble upon your body at three in the morning. You are dead.
People who say suicide is selfish are not always right. For some the choice is selfish, but for others it isn't. It's a matter of perspective. I promise you that at least half of people who shuffle in front of oncoming traffic or drink down vodka to chase the bottle of sleeping pills had their final thoughts of the ones they love. After all, while you're laying on the bed for hours waiting for the pills to slowly take you away, what're you supposed to do? Play solitaire?
If you have to pause and consider whether or not to write in pencil or ink, you aren't ready to die. Do you think your loved ones care if the tears smudge the ink? I'm sure a lot of them through anger would tear up the letter anyway in a moment of confusion before coming back hours, weeks, years later to tape it back together and hope that comfort can be found there. Solace. Understanding.
Denial.
They've found your body resting on the couch, on the bed, curled up in the fetal position on the floor with scattered photographs of friends around your head like a halo.
"They aren't really dead, they're just sleeping."
They've found your body in the lake where you crashed your car, driving over the bridge at a speed that's ridiculously high.
"They aren't dead yet, just do CPR."
They've found your body slumped on the bathroom floor, hunched in the corner of the closet, sitting in the car with jagged cuts across your wrists.
"They aren't dead, they've not lost enough blood -- call 911."
They will make any and every excuse to believe anything but the truth. And then it takes a major turn.
Anger.
"Why me? Why my pills? Dammit, did they not care about what I would think?"
"God, why did you let them drive over the damn bridge? Why didn't you stop them? Carry the car to the shore and prevent them from drowning?"
"Selfish bastard. Leaving me here alone, forgetting who their friends are, forgetting who got them this far."
Maybe the anger lasts for only a moment. Maybe it lasts for several weeks. Maybe, in some sense, it never truly goes away. But eventually it does fade long enough that they're left wishing they'd said or done things that they'd neglected to do or wishing they hadn't said or done things that they'd done. Maybe they start blaming themselves in illogical ways. If they had taken their medication with them every time they left the house this wouldn't have happened, if they hadn't left them home alone with the car they wouldn't have drove it over the bridge to their death, if they hadn't left the razor out in plain sight in the bathroom they wouldn't have cut themselves to end it all -- what if. You can what if yourself to death.
What if they knew just how much I loved them?
What if I had just called while I was out of the house and had a moment to talk?
What if....
Depression.
What ifs prevent you from living. You spend all your time wondering if you had done something differently then maybe they would still be alive. You don't have the energy to survive -- your mind goes to that same dark place that theirs traveled through not so long ago. You realize exactly what they meant. That all the twisted, demented, unorthodox things make a lot of sense when you're wandering those paths yourself. Life is darker. The things that once held meaning suddenly don't make much sense at all. You get frustrated at the simplest tasks, cry for no reason, become bitter, shelter yourself from the world and soon the friends that were on your side trying to help you save the one you loved are all now trying to help you.
How do you respond? Pushing them away, telling them you're fine when really as soon as you hang up you dissolve into tears, clutch fiercely to a liquor bottle, examine the gun you've kept for years for self-protection but now wonder if it has an ultimately better use.
Maybe in time you get better. You go searching for meaning, a friend pulls you out of the dark abyss, and you get help. Maybe, at long last, rays of light are breaking through the dense canopy of thought and bringing hope. Maybe you learn to accept what happened and that it wasn't your fault. It was their choice.
But real life is not always happily-ever-after. While you can get better, not everyone does.
Maybe you finally do pick up that gun and put it in your mouth, running your tongue over the barrel and marveling at the taste of ash in your mouth from when you fired it once to test the recoil in case a burgler ever did come in. The metal's cold and you just don't care and, in the back of your mind, there's the curiosity if it'll hurt and if you'll live long enough to see if you really did have any brains. Maybe they'll splatter across the wall, over the floor, maybe you'll see all the twisted and ugly thoughts blast away with the single pull of the trigger and before you die things will make sense.
Say you do pull the trigger. You called a friend but they didn't answer. Or they answered and said they were 'too busy to talk.' You went to someone's house to talk to them and they weren't home. Worse yet, they didn't come to the door because they never know what to say when you're upset. Say you do these things and you think it's because they don't love you.
If they don't love you, they never did.
You don't pause for thought. You grab the gun, crying and shaking, fumble on the trigger and then the shot rings out and the pain is brief and the room fades almost at once. Game over.
If you feel like this and don't know where to go or how to word it in your suicide letter, maybe you're not ready to die. Maybe you're looking for that ray of light to shoot through the smallest gap between the branches of doubt, fear, regret, loneliness, hopelessness -- whatever burdens you carry. If you feel like you don't know where you're going, that your footsteps are taking you in circles, why not walk with your arms outstretched and see if a friend takes your hand and pulls you into an embrace?
If you have to think about the letter, perhaps it's because you shouldn't be writing it.
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