The sound of the wind whirling past is the last voice I will ever hear. Bullied and harassed in high school, I comforted myself by imagining my funeral, where a note would be read out exposing those who caused me such misery.Īs my feet leave the ground, I close my eyes. Suicide was a weapon within my dreams, a way for me to say ‘fuck you’ to the world and those who hurt me. Years before, I had fantasized about suicide, never thinking I would one day act on those thoughts. When a break in the headlights comes, I turn and leap over the railing. I just want to end my pain. There is nothing else to do. Stop Now! Go Back! No one will know I came this far. I don’t want to die. I turn my back to the water and try to breathe. When I reach the top of the bridge, I drop my bag. All the happy and joyful memories of my life were cut off, like they never existed. I was filled with a level of self-hate and emotional pain I didn’t know could exist. I am 22 years old.ĭepression is not a feeling, it is an illness. Part of me screams, Stop! But I continue on. Something catastrophic must happen to rob someone of their will to live, convincing them that death is the only thing that can end their torment.Īs I tread farther up the bridge, the river sinks below. Forming the foundations of all life is the urge to survive. Some people think suicide is a cowardly or selfish act, but carrying it out is far from easy. My backpack, protecting my miserable attempt at a suicide note, is the only thing I want to survive the night. With a desperate need, I walk, frantically, calmly, each step driven by a wretched determination. The rain-slicked street flashes in and out of the night as a steady trickle of headlights pass over the bridge.
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