≡ Menu

Letters to Writers #4

November 28, 2016 at 2:16pm
Subject: Suicide

I read your article in The Sun. Good shit.

At my darkest, I’ve pondered it. My choice: The Foresthill bridge. It’s the highest bridge in California and 4th tallest in the U.S. Plus, it’s conveniently close. There wouldn’t be any coming back from that. I’ve almost died several times, so I know the miracle of modern medicine. You really have to break yourself. A bag over the head or filling the inside of a car with carbon monoxide still leaves too much room for a savior. Coming back from death is worse than death.

It’s been a while since I’ve thought of that. Life’s been hard but not dark. I have pills. When I do think about it I tell myself it’s an ideation, not planning.

Being a father keeps me here, I think. But I have 400,000 dollars of life insurance and suicide is covered so when I feel like I’m failing I wonder if money would be better for him. There’s the fact that I was abandoned by my father too. I know killing myself would be the worst thing I could do. I’d become my father. I mean, I’ve certainly failed him at times but I keep trying to be better. I’m still here.

When we only have to answer to ourselves, wrecking our lives is a luxury.

I’ve never done well with moderation or structure. I navigate from the extremes—I do a thing or I don’t, and the choosing is fickle. I’m horrible at listening to others. And like you, I choose to do things that I don’t want to do often. I’m fully aware, yet I still choose the thing I don’t want. I think Lidia said it best:

“You see it is important to understand how damaged people don’t always know how to say yes, or to choose the big thing, even when it is right in front of them. It’s a shame we carry. The shame of wanting something good. The shame of not believing we deserve to stand in the same room in the same way as all those we admire. Big red A’s on our chests.”

Today I’m at the coffee shop not writing.

I don’t know if there will come a time without the ebb and flow of this struggle, the acting out of our unworthiness. That’s our lot.

What is “happy” anyway? What is success? Peace? Fuck the facades. I’m more interested in blood-truth and I count you among the brave tellers.



Photo Credit: Moiseiko at English Wikipedia
{ 0 comments… add one }

Leave a Comment

Previous post: