Most of the time I wish I was dead. I hate myself so much everyday. My thoughts are killing me. I feel lost inside myself. I don’t want to be here anymore. I’m tired of this. I think too much. I’m never okay. I’m always faking a smile. I always care and get hurt. My very own thoughts are suffocating me.
I’m not afraid of dying anymore. I’m more afraid of living. I don’t see the point anymore. Was there ever one? Because if it was to just go through life feeling the way I do, they I don’t wanna be here.
A suicide note:
If you haven’t noticed the scars on my wrists, or the fake smile on my lips, or the forced laugh that I’ve adopted, or the way I don’t care about the things I used to love, then don’t you dare stand at my grave and cry. How can you cry for someone you don’t even know?
Can you feel it?
The dead weight of your legs from the sleeping pills, the dizziness from the alcohol, the soft throbbing of your pulse as blood is being pumped out of your wrists?
That’s what we’ve been waiting for, the quiet comfort.
The beauty of dying.
Suicide is a word that often has a negative connotation. People think it is a cowardly action and people are only asking for attention. The one thing they don’t realize is how this person was hurt so much that they felt the need to end their life.
All I ever wanted was to be noticed, be talked to, have friends! Not be that one person that no one remembers was there. Suicide just seemed like the best way to slap them in the face and say “I’m here too!”.
It was not the moment that I decided to commit suicide that terrified me the most. It was the moment when I accepted it; no, embraced it. In that moment, I realized how much I despised living a life I had once loved; and that, that is the saddest thing of all.