I’ve written a lot of suicide notes in my life.
It’s a healthy thing, honestly, as it allows you to write down what you feel bad about, look at it objectively, and realize what exactly your problems are at that time; especially if these things are making you consider the idea of suicide. I mostly did this as a teenager and in my early twenties. It only stopped a few years ago when, at complete and total rock bottom, I actually went to write a real suicide note and, upon realizing I’d only written “I can’t do this anymore” on a post it note that I’d pinned to my shirt while standing on the roof of my apartment building, discovered that even if I ever did intend to end my life I still wouldn’t talk to anyone even from beyond the grave. That was sort of an eye opening experience. Being so walled off that even your actual suicide note is vague. I think maybe part of it was because all the others I knew nobody would ever read, but I feel that there has to be something more to that.
I’m not going to sugarcoat it. There will probably never be a time in my life when I don’t want to kill myself. As happy as I can be for certain things, like having my girlfriend and the eventual possibility of raising a family or being a published author, in the end that feeling never really goes away completely. I don’t write suicide notes really anymore. Now I just write in this blog. I suppose that could be viewed as a positive step up. But there’s nothing really positive in life. Life is inherently meaningless, and we created ‘purpose’ as a way to trick ourselves into believing that we exist for a reason, that we aren’t here for no particular reason, because we can’t stand the idea that our entire reason for being doesn’t matter. But…that’s the thing to keep in mind, I guess. If life is inherently pointless and meaningless, and has no reason, then we can create whatever reason we want. Even something as simple as ‘Well, I like the smell of this teabag, and if I were dead, I’d miss it’. It doesn’t even have to be a big reason.
As a little girl, despite how much I wanted to die, I also really liked reading and my dogs, and so I knew I wanted to continue to like those things and I couldn’t do those if I were dead. Maybe that’s what life is. A series of sort of reasons to not kill yourself.
What’s the meaning to life?
Whatever the fuck you want it to be.