If You’re Reading This, It’s Too Late.

If You're Reading This, Suicide, Suicide Note, Death, Depression, Mental Health

This can only mean one thing; there is a dead body somewhere.

And it is mine.

I wish I could say that I am sorry. That I should not have done this. That I should have been strong-er. Bold-er. Or (more) vocal about what ails me.

I wish I could tell you that I will miss feeling the sun stretching from the heavens, finding me wherever – while I lay on the bed in wakefulness, peeping in, defiantly penetrating the curtains, at the breakfast table as I sipped my cup of tea, or walking beside me as I went to work – always touching me ever so gently, warming me up. I wish I could tell you that the sunshine gave me warmth and that this warmth would spread to my cold heart, and that this was enough to make me desire life enough to keep drawing in breaths with enthusiasm, however hard it seemed.

I wish I could tell you that your love for me was enough to coerce melancholy out of me. That your phone calls chipped away at my sadness, reducing its intensity, giving me the proverbial light at the end of this dark tunnel that is me. I wish I could tell you that your text messages, always full of hope and encouragement gave me the strength I needed to face tomorrow. That the songs you suggested I listen to were transposed to my heart, lifted my spirit. But what phone calls? What text messages? What songs? I felt no love. And again, what spirit?

I wish I could tell you that food made me hungrier. Hungrier for more food, just as for life. That a hunger burned deep within me and that I had it in me to want to sate it. That there existed desire to keep hungry. Keep living. Keep eating. Not just food but life. With a big, even bigger spoon. I wish I could tell you that your good cooking filled me up. That it somehow managed to fill a void, ease some of the pain.

I cannot say any of that. Because there was none of that. And nothing makes sense. Not the rays of the sun on my skin. Not the food that I eat. Not the air that I breathe. I feel nothing. I am numb. The ‘good morning’ texts could have helped, maybe. The ‘just checking up on you’ phone calls might have made things bearable, perhaps. Instead, the thoughts, they stayed. The hopelessness, it spread, determined to arrest my smile. My face. Every part of me. Sadness embraced me. The sun could not find a way through.

I know what you are thinking; this is selfish. There are better ways of dealing with whatever it is I am dealing with. Maybe I chose the easy way out because sinking is indeed easy. You just let yourself go. You allow gravity to collaborate with your weight to carry you to your rock bottom. You only have to stop at the bottom. You only have to stop breathing. Your heart just has to stop beating. So damn easy.

Yes, maybe I chose the easier way out. But that is because I did not have it in me to choose otherwise. Staying afloat, holding on, keeping alive, pumping your heart with oxygen through breaths every second – that is the hard part. And when you have to remind yourself to not stop breathing, when you have to think about how fast or slow your heart is beating, when living becomes a chore that you have to tick off the list at the end of every day, that’s when it kills you.

Breathing has become a chore that drains me. Food is tasteless – and chewing it, too much work. Life has no flavor, no colour.

In all fairness, this is not about you. This is about the grand-er scheme of things. It is about a process. A sequence. The spirit leaves the body; the body follows the spirit.

Mine left four months ago. With him. When he was lowered to the grave, never to come back. Never to rise out of the cold, hard, box, to perhaps exclaim it was all a big joke and he was here to stay. Never to breathe again. Never to smile at me again. Never to hold my hand, nor tickle my mind, nor ignite my laughter to bouts of happiness. He was gone. Forever. My spirit betrayed me, choosing him over me. And I was left with a shell to carry around. Limbs, a head that could get quite heavy, torso too difficult to drag around, a heart that became an efficient machine – simply working and feeling nada.

I cried. Bucketful of tears. This was supposed to help. The pain, the weight, the sadness was supposed to leave my body together with the tears. But then the tears dried up. So I talked myself hoarse. I talked myself to sleep. I talked myself to wakefulness. I talked myself to madness. When all was said and done, and I hope you appreciate the literality of this, I had no voice, no answers and no life in me.

My spirit had after all left me. I had buried it together with him. My laughter, my smile, my play, my ambition. My love. All I needed to help me drag this body around, gone. I buried them. It’s what we do to dead things right?

This body has become unbearably heavy. Today, I choose to put it down. I want to put it down. Consider this my attempt to correct an anomaly; of what use is the body without the spirit, right?

My death happened four months ago.

Today, you only get to dispose this shell of a body.

Goodbye.

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