i found my old suicide note, and it was funny

not funny haha, funny yikes.

CW // suicide

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To whom it may concern, my suicide letter starts, goodbye.

My god. 

As I reread my 16-year-old self’s almost-final words, I am in full belly laughter. I can’t believe my teenage self addressed this life-ending situation in the same language I’d use today in a business email.

There’s no good way to say goodbye if the goodbye isn’t expected. I don’t imagine I brainstormed many ways to reveal my departure from my younger self’s angst, but I imagine none of them would have been wanted. I still remember how depression’s gravity feels, though; there is no string of phrases that could adequately explain my absence.

When I was at my saddest, the decision to leave was the hardest part, and the dying itself felt like the easiest. I was not afraid of the afterlife or the in-between or the all-around; I was afraid of this body that left class to cry in the bathroom stalls, this body that purposefully walked alone down dark alleys, this body that kept its eyes open during the Sunday morning prayer.

In addition to the whom it may concern, I count exactly eleven people addressed in my note, five of whom I have not seen since high school graduation. I remember the cliché parroted to my 16-year-old self: this won’t matter in ten years. Fuck, it was true. If half of the people who meant the world to me in tenth grade are strangers to me today, it was untrue for me to think the deadliest half of my depression wouldn’t be a stranger to me today, too.

God, I was a dumb bitch. I laugh some more. I’m glad I survived, if anything, to prevent anyone from remembering To Whom It May Concern as some of my last words. 

These days, I’m hyperaware of the possibility of death at any moment. A car crash. Cancer. The chiropracter accidentally breaking my neck. Anaphylaxis from an allergy I’ve never had. My hands. 

Out of all of these possibilities, my hands are still the most likely to kill me.

Out of all of these possibilities, my hands still scare me the most.

There is hilarity in being your own worst fear. It reminds me of when my dog, Emma, once barked at her reflection in the mirror. My spouse and I responded, Emma, baby, that’s you! and she cried and walked away. I shouldn’t have laughed — I understand how she feels. If the unrecognizable version of myself reappeared before me, I, too, would try to scare them away.

Being alive is so silly, and it no longer feels like a lie to admit how desperately I want to be silly. I hope to have the privilege of dying old and scratchy-voiced beside the love of my life. Death terrifies me now, not because of the afterlife or the in-between or the all-around, but because I don’t want to lose the life I worked so hard to keep. I want to keep loving my spouse in this soft, sore body. I want to kiss him with these lips. I want to watch The Perks of Being a Wallflower for the four hundredth time. I want to see the One Direction reunion tour. I want to believe in things that will probably never happen, just because it’s fun to believe in something. I want to laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

I want to be clear — there is nothing funny about suicide. To want to end your life — or to love someone who wants to end their life — is the hungriest of tragedies. I wish no one that emptiness. 

And, still, I can’t help but giggle at the wildly embarrassing, emo evening memo that would have been the last of my memory. I laugh because I have now been alive long enough to remember it.

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a poem to start your week

Gloves by Kaveh Akbar

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a song to scream in the car

discovered this song last week, which led to this conversation with my friend Kayla, which is the only context you need before listening:

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housekeeping:

• unfold: poetry + prose, is available on amazon, bookshop, indigo, b&n, or wherever you get books <3

• you can still buy paper girl from amazon, barnes & noble, indigo, or your local indie.

• i love you. and i see you. and i am so glad you're here.

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who i am: a writer, a lover, and a very Black + queer person. i love deeply, forget rarely, and spend most of my time cuddling with my dog, my cat, and my partner.

who i'm not: a therapist, mental health professional, or emergency service. i love hearing the stories of your experiences, but please don't send explicit or triggering details of your story without my prior consent. 

if you're in crisis, please call 911 or use any of the following resources:

• National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 988

• National Domestic Violence Hotline: 1-800-799-SAFE (7233)

• Crisis Text Line: Text HELP to 741741

• S.A.F.E. (Self Abuse Finally Ends): 1-800-DONT-CUT (366-8288)

• Eating Disorders Awareness and Prevention: 1-800-931-2237

• RAINN (Rape, Abuse, & Incest National Network): 1-800-656-4673

• The Trevor Project: 1-866-488-7386