My Last Letter
How do you begin to write a letter that denotes the cessation of your existence in your bodily form? I’d like to say I don’t know, but that would be a lie. Well, maybe a half-lie. I’m not fully convinced that I was the author doing the writing.
Suicide is on that absolute dark list of topics that not many are willing to talk about, like abortion and war. It causes people to deflect or wave their hands in front of their face while quickly mumbling,
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
So, why would I discuss this subject in an article that I’m hoping people will read? Simple. We cannot overcome that which we purposely avoid.
I’m not going to claim to know all the reasons why people reach the point of suicidal thoughts. Nor will I claim that I know what brings a person to attempt suicide, because I’ve never worn those shoes. However, I do believe that each situation shares a similar catalyst. It’s a point of desperation. We feel alone, trapped, out of options. We genuinely believe that this physical realm is no longer meant for us.
No one actually wants to kill themselves. We’ve been convinced to believe a lie. Like self-inflicted Stockholm Syndrome. Without treatment and support, our trauma continues to dig its claws in, deeper and deeper. The tug of war between life and death begins to tilt towards a senseless demise. Suicidal ideations penetrate weakened hearts like a tiger’s canines through the supple neck of a wild pig. We’re bleeding out. Our diseased brains madly search for a way out of constant pain. No different than the liver of an alcoholic, or the lungs of a long-term smoker. The only difference is the brain holds power and persuasion. This marks the birth and cultivation of your imposturous duplicity.
Sometimes life puts us through our most difficult tests when we’re at our weakest.
About 4 years ago, my severe depression had me backed against a wall. My brain was so overwhelmingly polluted with sadness, anger, defeat, self-hatred, and exhaustion. As I laid sleepless, malnourished, and devoid of happiness, one day bled into the next, like red wine on the once-white carpet that was my functioning brain. Life was a nagging stain that I couldn’t scrub clean and could no longer ignore. Through sheer ego, ignorance, and embarrassment, I sat alone, teary-eyed and lost, while I penned my final letter. More accurately, I typed it into my computer. Which carries its own flavour of ridiculousness that I’ll explain later.
So, what’s in a suicide note?
Well, I’ve only written one. And I can’t say I’ve ever read any others. So, I’ll draw from my own experience, and for the sake of the discussion, maybe we can agree that most probably look similar. And If it sounds like I’m making light of this situation, it’s only because the dark humour that often comes with surviving these traumatic experiences helps people cope and gain strength. I don’t talk about this often, so there’s also the underlying chance that humour is just a protection measure from insecurity. This is still a profoundly serious subject.
I’m going to avoid breaking down and explaining the things that I wrote. The last thing I want to do is give people ideas. No, the point of this is to show you that you are not the composer or the thinker of suicidal thoughts. I was hijacked, kidnapped, and forced to write a ransom note, in the hopes of saving my own life.
What was to be my last letter was filled with four main subjects. Profuse apologies, regrets, untold words of love directed to the people I care about, and an attempted rationale of why this was the only card left in my hand. I typed feverishly, and with intent… but hit “Backspace” to correct my spelling, punctuation, and grammar mistakes. I mean, it has to look good, right? I knew this was my finale. I wrote with meaning and surety… until I couldn’t find the right words. The result? An unstructured and long-winded mess of reasons why I should stay alive. Apologies that I could still make. Regrets. Some that I can rectify, some that aren’t meant to be rectified. Untold words of love that I could verbalize in person. The one thing my last letter was missing? An actual, concrete, and irrefutable excuse as to why I should follow through with these ideations from my diseased and captive brain. I didn’t finish the letter. I don’t even know where it is now. Probably deleted in embarrassment or lost in the hundreds of other useless ramblings that are strewn across my hard drive.
Even though I wrote that letter, part of me knew no one would ever see it. Mostly because it was on my computer which has facial recognition and a password. And it’s not like I was gonna send it in a mass email. This page in my history became an ill-thought, dramatized moment of extreme weakness.
The realization that came with knowing that I had too much to live for didn’t bring me relief. My head dropped like a bowling ball in a weak child’s hands. A deep sigh and an elongated, “Fuuuuck,” spewed from my mouth. I knew I was stuck. I knew I had to work harder in this godforsaken, cursed, and worn-out body. I had to painstakingly loosen the ropes my captor forced on me, knot by knot. I don’t get to crack my skull open, spoon out my old brain and replace it with a shiny, new model. I have to learn to be industrious and resourceful.
You might be asking, do suicidal thoughts go away? Maybe. I’m sure it’s case by case. What’s more likely though, is that as you get stronger, those voices get smaller and quieter. You weaken your captor win by win. You become the Kevin McCallister of the home that is your brain. You outsmart Harry and Marv and thwart the robbery of your mind.
To this day, I still feel as though I was not the author of that letter. Nevertheless, those moments four years ago carry some pain knowing I reached that point and never told anybody. Fortunately for me, the entity that forcefully held my brain hostage and forced me to type those words wasn’t as evil and unforgiving as I was led to believe. It was a representative of truth. It was a messenger with an urgent warning. That letter was never an explanation for premature death. It was a last-ditch effort to save my life.
If you find yourself in similar circumstances, remember to read between the lines. The authentic translation of the words you read may not be as sorrowful and helpless as first interpreted. And after each page you’ve filled, comes many more that are yet to be written.
