A Suicide Note for the Living

Dear Life,

Inevitably, as sure as the sun rises and sets, as sure as gravity forces our bodies as close to the soil as physically possible, there will be horrible and glorious things happening in the world tomorrow. Unfortunately, I won’t be alive to see them.

That’s right. I am retiring from the living world, intentionally interrupting my heartbeat with one final flatliner, numbing my brain to sensation in hopes that it will shut down for the good of eternity. In other words, I’m gonna die.

What’s that? Am I depressed? Well, no. I’m doing quite well, actually. I’ve got a job, a roof over my head, and a glass of wine in my hand. I can’t complain. I know that each day, each week, and each year there will be ups and downs, ebbs and flows, twists and turns. I’m well aware of the kinetic energy dancing around, transparent and happening; try as we might, we can’t control it. In the same way, I can’t control my urge to die.

There are so many reasons why I should keep living, my head spins just thinking about it. But when I think about dying, I am not afraid. In fact, I’m looking forward to it. I’ve reconciled myself with my untimely adieu. I’m not sure why, but no matter how it happens, I’m sure the act of passing will not be as dark as the living say it is. Like they know anything.

Death is projected and speculated upon in life as a loss. But what about the gain? And what about fate? Just think… By taking my life out of the chaotic ongoing population equation, my death may indirectly save thousands of lives, create the circumstances for soul mates to meet and fall in love, and do other things normally attributed to fate. In other words, my death is meant to happen. And there’s no stopping it now.

One of two quick judgments may have popped into your head: one, “She’s fucking whacked. Let her jump,” or two, “Poor girl. She just needs a hug and some attention, maybe a few ecstasy pills, and she will be fine. She will live. My intervention will save her life! I am such a good fucking person!”

Before you go off on that virtuous trip, please calm down and go save an abandoned kitten or give a crack whore some crack or something. I do not deserve to be the target for your self-righteousness. I just want to die, okay? What the hell is wrong with that? What’s that, you say? Hell? Well, hell! I don’t believe in it! I’m fucking whacked, I tell you!

But seriously, a hug would be nice. I’m really going to miss human contact. Oh wait, no I won’t. I will be dead. My body will burn, my history will remain, and everyone who is still alive can just deal with it by forgetting about me, maybe having a good cry, or if they really want to do right by me, do some celebrating.

Like I said, life is full of ups and downs. It’s accepted thinking that people who die by their own hands are selfish. When someone commits suicide, people close to them tend to blame themselves and wonder if there was anything they could have done.

This popular line of thinking can be therapuetic if it helps you cope with suicidal tragedy close to home. But when I kill myself, it won’t be a tragedy. No, it will be good riddance, indeed. To that end, I would rather people refrain from calling me a selfish person and blaming themselves. Why? Because I would have wanted it that way. As far as wondering if there was anything you could have done, let me put it this way: don’t. Enjoy my absence just as much as you would have enjoyed my presence.

Really, why is voluntary death so vilified? In a world where suicide is illegal and looked down upon with shame while heroin addicts prop up the economy of Afganistan by needling themselves to death, I am quite the controversial figure, free from the spiritual trappings of religion, no afterworld or eleventh life to call my own. I’m looking forward to pulling the plug, dying with dignity way before my time, and nothing is going to stop me. Why should someone or something else get to kill me? I've lived my life; why can’t I end it, too?

Alright, I’m not gonna prolong the inevitable and keep knockin’ on Heaven’s door here, ‘cause if Heaven turns the tables and starts knockin’ on my door, I’m not gonna let it in, because I’m gonna die before it can burst in and get all enlightened and spiritual on my cynical, realist legacy. Death is just a mere second in life. From mass murderer to shaman, you gotta respect the dead for the way they lived, not the way they died. So goodbye, life. It’s been a good one!

With Love and Respect,

Me


P.S. Cop-out clause: I’ve just realized that I’m going to have to wait until my parents die before I kill myself. After all, they created me. That would be kind of rude to just say, “Thanks for creating me, loving me, raising me, and putting me through college. Now instead of coming to visit four times a year and calling you every other night, I’m just going to die, and you’ll never see me again.” Plus, I love my parents. I could never hurt them like that. There’s this mourn that goes, “No parent should ever have to outlive/bury his child.” Well, my parents agree with this sentiment, so I’ve got to respect that. But as soon as my parents die, you know, maybe fifty years from now, when they feel like it’s time, I am going to die.



But then again, maybe this horrible, glorious apocalypto-kinetic energy will have killed us all by then.