Eleven Years

It was on this day eleven years ago that I decided to die. I was seventeen, and while I won’t violate policy by stating my method, the short story is that it was ineffective.

Ever since I was 12 or so, living has quite simply felt wrong. But I dealt with it. This fundamental issue was exacerbated by an issue that arose soon after. I had a really good friend, but every time she had a boyfriend, I got ridiculously jealous. Oddly enough, I always found a way to explain away my feelings. When similar situations arose in subsequent years, I concocted all kinds of ridiculous stories to explain away my attraction to other girls. Still, the summer I turned 17 marked a peculiar turning point. I fell so in love with a girl that I was no longer unable to find a rationalization that allowed me to continue to pretend I could possibly be straight. She, however, was straight. I couldn’t deal with my feelings or the despair of knowing I had no chance, and I ultimately lost her friendship. It was at that point that I was able to see this as the most recent in a series of failed friendships with straight girls to whom I was attracted. In a moment of exceptional clarity, I realized, “This is what my life is going to be.” And there it was, my destiny, monstrous and empty. That’s when I decided to die.

It’s not a lie for me to say I would have missed out on great things if I had succeeded. I got all sorts of academic and athletic accolades in the year that followed. I had a therapist who was one of the most interesting people I have ever met. Next, I went to college. I traveled to three different countries during that time. I had an amazing professor and role model. I got every award a student in my program could, and graduated in the top 10.

There was a darker side to all of that, though. The year after I failed to die, I met the love of my life. Unfortunately, she’s a pathological cheater. I devoted myself to her completely for 10 years. She was my best friend. Even when she was dating other people, I somehow believed her when she said we would end up together. Last fall, I finally shut her out of my life. For something so difficult, it was easier than expected. At some point in the past few years, I had lost my entire capacity to love.  That helped.

While all of that was going on, I endured awful sexual harassment from one of my colleagues. It’s funny how it was my reputation that was somehow destroyed by it. To make it worse, I visited my college and was hanging out with one of my professors (not the one I mentioned above, thankfully). He made it painfully clear that his interest in me had been, well, extracurricular. To this day, I am furious at myself for not telling him off when he kissed me. I just said nothing, and pretended like it didn’t happen. But I’m still seething because I thought that someone intelligent respected me as a thinker, and I guess that all along he just wanted something else from me. I should have made a scene right there. I should have screamed at him that he just took something away from me. But I didn’t. I was silent. These two key events ruined my favorite thing in the world, to the extent that I’m changing my entire career path. That’s how bad the resulting anxiety got. How much I’ve lost the joy in what I do. And how much of a coward I’ve become.

Now, I’m out of work while I struggle to change fields. I sometimes write cover letters in bed because I find it so hard to get up every day. I’m in poor shape and am constantly getting set back by knee and back injuries. Everything reminds me of who I used to be. How cute I was. How good at sports I was. How well I used to draw. How easy it was for me to write for hours. Now I’m just this angry, twisted thing.

I wish I could say that I am glad I didn’t die. It’s true that there are many things I’m grateful for that happened because I failed to kill myself. All the same, I think it would have been better for me to die when I was still alive.