my suicide

During my senior year in high school, my English teacher asked the class how we see ourselves ten years from now. I candidly answered, much to her dismay, “Ten years from now, I will be dead, a cold corpse in an obscure cemetery.”

Every man must be a master of his own death. Not nature, not freak accidents, not even Death.

I believe our lives are our own possession which we can nurture or destroy. It was never lent to us, mind you. Rather, it was given to us like a Christmas present, wrapped in beautiful red and green Christmas gift wrapper. And after the season is gone, we can choose whether to treasure it or throw it away.

Hence, I always, for better or for worse, idolize people who have the courage to take their own lives. Curt Cobain. Sylvia Plath. Their suicide immortalized and assured the legacy they left behind. We envy them too much, yet we avoid emulating them because we love our lives too much, too scared that our suicide will just be for naught.

Honestly, suicide is not that hard. All we need is a bladed weapon or a poison (or, if we can, weapons of mass destruction). And enough guts to terminate our wretched existence. Do you know why I say this with much conviction?

I attempted to commit suicide a week ago. I took sleeping pills as plenty as the sands of the see. I then took a knife and made a vertical cut from the tip of my palm to to almost 5 inches down my arm and blood was rushing everywhere. I felt horrible. I was feeling lost. Feelings could no longer be contained. I wanted to just die. I was at a point when no one wanted to listen and I was just full of words, wanted to scream. I fell apart, crumbling under the crushing weight of a thousand expectations. My world fell apart, crumbling under the crushing weight of a thousand expectations. At that time, I do not know which was worse – finally achieving my dreams or losing the will to live. The burden of disillusionment just became my daily cross and so I decided to end life.

My room mate found me foredead and hurriedly brought me to the hospital and yeah, they were able to revive me. I loathe him. Real hard. He should have let me meet the Creator and face judgement. He should have let me die.

This may sound pathetic but this is true and I dont even care if you judge me. I'm sick with everything there is. So sick. So wasted. Now people wont get out of my sight, watching me like a sick pyscho ready to castrate the lives of people.

I just wanna die. Just please let me. Too much suffering. Too much pain.

Oh, this is just too much!