A.k.a. how fucking useless they all are? The only thing mental health care providers have ever done for me is make me feel like they’re exploiting my mental illness as an expendable source of income. 0% helpful. 100% scam. And yet everybody swears by them while I am absolutely convinced that the mental health services are pseudoscience. They don’t give a SHIT about me unless I’m paying. And then they have the audacity to take the $200 I managed to scrape together to try and get some real help, and tell me to fix it myself. Fuck all of you, I hope you all burn in hell with every one of your patients who have committed suicide because you were too selfish to actually help them. God.
Chronic PainCoping SkillsFamily & Friends EffectsGeneralMy Suicide NotePoetry & ArtRantsStories of Loss
Even after every day you didn’t talk to me. Every day you told me you hated me. That I should leave and never come back. After every day I tried to say I was sorry for my shortcomings, and every day that you never forgave me. Every day you never apologized for your own shortcomings, for the bullying and the heartbreak, for every time I tried to share my life with you only for you to throw it back in my face. Every day you told me I looked like a whore when I put on make up when I didn’t feel confident; every day you told me my interests were stupid and weird, even though sometimes they were the only things that made me feel alive; every day you made sure I knew that I was just as much as an outcast as I felt.
But your name was always at the top of the page, even after every time you turned your crappy country music all the way up when we were driving, just to piss me off. Every time I asked you to lunch and you told me you weren’t hungry, even though you went out with your friends an hour later. After every time you told me to fuck off when I told you I was worried about you, every time I tried to offer you advice. My suicide note was always addressed to you, even if you never cared.
And then I left. I went to college and we never talked and I took little white pills that made me sick and tired and made my hair fall out and I stopped writing suicide notes in my head sometimes, but when I did they were still always to you. I grew up fast and life got hard even faster and some days my suicide notes were my only source of comfort. They were an out for a game that I was losing, a game I had never wanted to play in the first place.
You called me for the first time three months in, and we talked for two hours. After drinking myself sick on weekdays and running out of shirts that didn’t show my arms, I realized that there was more to life than mothering you; I knew that’s what had always pissed you off the most. After all, you were probably doing a lot better than I was. I didn’t tell you that but you knew that I had changed. You were always smart like that. You told me that I was like a “new person,” I was cooler now. After years of trying, you finally told me you trusted me, you forgave me, and we spent hours making up for lost years. I didn’t want to write suicide notes to you anymore.
Addressing a letter to someone is like looking them in the eye while they read it, and I knew that when I died, I wanted to look you in the eye when I said I was sorry. Maybe I was hoping that in my final words you’d find something redeemable in me, that if I left the culmination of my life addressed to you, you would finally love me the way that I had loved you all these years. That it would make up for everything I had done. Maybe I was just a little bit bitter that everything I had ever done to mend our relationship was in vain, that you never gave a damn about me, and that you never would until the day I died. But now it feels sharp and cold, it stings with betrayal, and I couldn’t look you in the eye even if I wanted to. It hurts too much. I am too afraid to break the trust you had finally given me. The trust I worked so hard for. The trust I would die for.
I still write suicide notes sometimes, but they’re never addressed to you. And if I ever do write one, I can only hope that you would forgive me one final time.
The worst part about finally achieving the happiness and contentment that you’ve always dreamed of is feeling it slip through your fingers. Feeling the hand that had found purchase in salvation lose its hold and force you back over the edge. Feeling the safety harness around your waist and in your chest snap. Feeling yourself slide down the steep slope you’ve fought your way up for years. Feeling your fingernails tear and bleed as you fight for purchase on a cliff so smooth you can see the scratches you’ve made reflected in your own face. Feeling your body hit the ground so hard you’re not sure if you’ll be able to get back up again. And as you lie at the bottom of the canyon you had so nearly escaped, broken, bloody, and beaten, you begin to realize that it’s grown deeper since the last time you had been there. You realize that while you had been so distracted by the prospect of finally climbing out, you’d never noticed that the cliff had been growing just as fast as you had been climbing. You realize that you will never win, that you were never going to. You have lost your uphill battle, and after falling thousands of feet to rock bottom, you wonder if another six would even matter.
Do you know what it feels like to have the last person you would say goodbye to if you killed yourself tell you that you’re a terrible fucking person? I’ll tell you what it feels like. It feels like your chest caving in on itself, your throat being torn out by the vocal cords, and your heart being crushed under the weight of unspoken words. It feels like fresh makeup running in lines down your face and like each heartbeat is a damnation, an act of sin. It feels like dying in the worst possible way and makes the noose you tied from your bedsheets look like a joke. It makes you feel like yesterday was a mistake and that tomorrow will never be worth it. It makes you wonder who you have left in the world because deep down you know he’s right. It makes you want to die.
And he may hate me, but my last words are still going to be spent telling him how much I love him.
Sometimes, late at night when I can’t sleep, I read suicide notes. Maybe it’s a morbid interest in what people’s last words to the world were. Maybe it’s finally being able to sympathize with a group of people, even if they’re all dead. Maybe it’s my way of preparing for my own note. I don’t know what it is about them, but I love to read suicide notes. I’ve read so many in the waking hours of the morning that they seem to blend together. Like the one from the 16 year old boy begging his parents for forgiveness. Or the one from the old man who, with his last words on Earth, told his wife of decades that he had always hated her. Or the one from the middle aged women who threatened to haunt her ex if he didn’t give her younger sister the piano she left at his apartment. Or, my personal favorite, the one from a guy who said he killed himself for no other reason than he had a toothache. Some are funny. Some are cold. Some are downright heartbreaking. But I usually never cry, no I have too many of my own words to write on notebook paper to cry. But sometimes I do. I cry hard and it breaks me a little more every time, but what’s a crack in something shattered? I love the ones that make me cry the most because they really make me feel. I feel so much in those moments, so much pain. I feel the pain of the writer as they take their lives. I feel the pain of their friends and family as they read the same note I read. I feel the pain of the world as it loses another innocent soul. I feel my own pain. Sometimes I think all I can feel is pain. But there’s always one word that does me in, and it’s never the “I’m sorry”s the “I love you”s or the “forgive me”s; it’s the “Goodbye.”