Suicide letters:

Reasons to bleed:

“Salander leaned back against the pillow and followed the conversation with a smile. She wondered why she, who had such difficulty talking about herself with people of flesh and blood, could blithely reveal her most intimate secrets to a bunch of completely unknown freaks on the Internet.”

                               ― Stieg Larsson, The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest

                I had written through my fifth draft of my suicide letter over the last 5 weeks. No one had seen me and no one asked. There was something comforting in the fact that no one really cared. I put down my coffee and stared at the screen. I was supposed to be this great writer but my grammar sucks and all I have ever wanted to do is to reach out to someone through my writing. Two novels down and I was beginning to get the feeling that they would remain on my hard drive. No one was going to take a chance on a stupid twenty something that doesn’t have a degree in the field.  But I figured if my last work as a writer I could at least explain to people why I had to put myself put an end everything.

                Somehow loneliness is its own disease and I knew that I would never let people see the darker side of me. So I kept smiling and dancing. I just kept throwing fans to distract people to how far to the edge I was. “Some of us will check out,” remarked G-man. I was so ready to end it. I wanted it to be over with. No one will ever give me a chance to see what I can do or just keep me in the same spot over and over again. No matter how much I try to do it will only get worse.

                I leaned back and inhaled my coffee. At least there was one thing that still made me feel a little bit comforted but a hot drink can only bring. The truth is, I’m carrying this God shaped hole in my chest and as I look at all those people around me I only realize how much more empty I am. What If they notice? I figured it was safer to leave everyone at arm’s length and pray that someone somewhere would hear my prayer and rescue me or even give me a little bit of guidance. Yet everything seems to fall short even myself.

                No one but a handful of people would miss me and each one has a half written letter. I guess I have trouble telling the whole truth to even my closest friends but I feel that there would be something left to explain. Something maybe  to forgive me and maybe forgive themselves for something they had no hand in. I never felt like I belonged and went through the motions of the happy go lucky gal. There were few people I could actually fool but the dance remained the same. The harder I smiled, the easier it was to choke back my tears. Sometimes I would yawn just to squeeze a few of them out.

                I wish I could explain why I’m so sad, why I feel that there is no end. I want to tell them, I love them but I feel like I have failed undeniably in all goals in my life and I now, I sit in my ir\ivory tower. Where, perched with a cup of hot tea and the organic view of my apartment, I reflect on the world. They say that if you look long enough into the abyss, the will look into you. To me, I feel as if I have become the abyss and no matter how much I try to push away from it seems to seek deeper into my subconscious. There really is no peace. 

Not here, not anywhere. I think I have come into a war that I’m no longer winning. It’s not like I haven’t tried before, there were even people I called to reach out to be there. A twist of fate? Or sign to jump into the abyss? I want to reach out, I want to get help but I can’t. Somewhere inside of my head I know that I can’t reach out because everyone would think I’m crazy and start to take away whatever rights I do have left.

                “Get help,” they say “It will be for the best” they say. I’ve been medicated and for the most part, I still am but the pain is always there and constant. I felt trapped in an H.P Lovecraft novel. Somehow there was space and time that never existed. I am slave to the pits of sorrow and never ending tragedy that haunts me every day. For days on end, I swim through the day with sadness leaking from my soul. What can you say? How do I cope.

 And counseling? Only so much can be done with the very little time I can afford and the shrinkers are easy to treat depending on the line of questioning. I don’t want to be fit into a little box where blue little pills can be shoved down my throat and I would be deemed “cured” by the doctor’s or counselors or whoever else wants to tramping through my skull. Either way my darkness and pain are my own to deal with. They are my burden and no one else’s that why the letters are so important. Maybe a sentence or two will work but either way I want them to know how much I love them and how much this world will never be one I can ever be a part of.

I tried my best to write these letters. Letters spread out across my desktop and sort through them. All of them half finished. All of them different and it seemed so distant. I’ve told myself that the day I stopped crying for the people I left behind would be the day I pulled the trigger. I was depressed, not in the right frame of mind and whether I like or not people care about me. Just because I could see it or feel it didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

I rubbed my eyes to refocus on the letters ignoring the ever growing “missed calls” vibrating from my cell. Nothing seemed to help. I was so tired. It was an endless state of fatigue.  I wanted to reach out to my boyfriend and get emotional support from him. I wanted more than anything to curl up on his lap and have him tell me, “how everything was going to be ok.” Would he be strong enough to just hold my hand?  Or would be staring at a different type of letter?  My fingers twitched as they wandered aimlessly searching for my pack of cigarettes.

I think the worst part of this was the desire to not hurt anyone. If I could find a way to just give up and not have anyone care; would I die freely? I saved the letters and looked outside of my third story apartment. Lights twinkled through the newly blossomed trees of spring. Maybe it was time to take time and change some things. My fingers stopped searching and went back to the key board. It was time to put this down for a while and try to focus something else. Anything else but the beautiful silence of oblivion.