This letter is about my plan to kill myself. I am
exasperated with this thing people tell me is my life and with how I
have adeptly destroyed the "bright prospects" you made of it. When
grandmother died last year, she took with her the last half-reason I had
to want to continue this struggle of living. After you called me with
the news, I sat staring at the wall for a long time. Then I opened my
eyes wide and my nostrils and my mouth but still it seemed I could never
draw in enough air to fill my lungs. I knew at that moment that my body
would slowly forget what it meant to breathe right.
Right now, the uncertainty of whatever lies beyond death has become more attractive than the certainty of life's daily agony. My heart and mind are no longer accepting arguments on why life is better. They agree that plunging my body into death is the most sincere act of faith. And of mercy. Tomorrow you will read about my suicide and the world will convince you that I have done a foul and cowardly thing. But you must understand that they speak from ignorance. You must remind them that if they did not know the battles I lost, they cannot judge my white flags of surrender.
Right now, the uncertainty of whatever lies beyond death has become more attractive than the certainty of life's daily agony. My heart and mind are no longer accepting arguments on why life is better. They agree that plunging my body into death is the most sincere act of faith. And of mercy. Tomorrow you will read about my suicide and the world will convince you that I have done a foul and cowardly thing. But you must understand that they speak from ignorance. You must remind them that if they did not know the battles I lost, they cannot judge my white flags of surrender.
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