(This is not a real letter. This is writing. TW: Suicide Note. Read with caution)
Hello, Beautiful! How are you doing? Good? I hope so. And I hope you continue being good after reading this. If you are, then I have gone ahead with the most awful plans. I’m not going to apologize for this. I’ve been apologizing for too long; been made to feel guilty and ashamed for these feelings and thoughts.
Why would you (because I know I know you) and others who declared love for me turn around and gnash your teeth at me? I trusted you to pull me from the darkness into the light just enough to know its warmth. Instead I was called selfish. I was told how cruel I was, and how much grief and misery I’d leave behind.
I lied earlier--I hope the world caves in on you. All of you. You made me carry the weight of my own sadness, laded me further with guilt. It was I who was suffering! But heaven forbid you took the time to help me. To hell with me and my pain, so long as you are not faced with the burdened of your mortality from my death.
Death.
Yes, I was obsessed with it. It was unhealthy how consumed I was with it. I always found myself drawn to that which I feared most; death and demons haunted my dreams. There was an aching need to feel that deep trembling fear. It was always better to be afraid than overwhelmed with sadness.
Now I can find no peace even in that. I’ve grown bitter and my mouth tastes like emptiness. The lies slip out easily, swallowed up without hesitation or question. Everyone wants me to not be ill so badly they’re willing to believe anything good, and turn a blind eye to the desperation in my soul.
The numbness is so much worse than the crippling sadness. A deep blue “funk” that’s like an undercurrent to my thoughts on the surface. This has been a long fight to stay afloat, and I can no longer do it.
When I confessed to the wounds I inflicted on myself... I was ostracized. Going back to the “undercurrent” analogy: When I showed you my scars and fresh cuts, that was like me screaming I’m drowning because I’m tired of swimming for my life. I’m an excellent swimmer, but at that point i was calling out for a life jacket. The cuts were like driftwood I’d grabbed onto, and you treated me and the only form of rest I had found on my own like we were weak and unworthy.
I hated myself for being that. I still hate myself, and maybe I’ll go on for all of time. An eternity of deep, burning self-loathing. But I’ll do my damnedest to take at least one of you down with me. I will never forgive you, and I want you to endure the rest of your life with the periodic thought of how you had a part in the tragic events to follow. I want you to taste my pain, even just a fraction.
So. No remorse in me as I write this, again I say: I will not apologize anymore. I will never forgive you.
