In the end one needs more courage to live than to **** himself.
A lot of you cared, just not enough, I guess. I just can't eat and I can't sleep. I'm not doing well in terms of being a functional human, you know? There comes a time when you look into the mirror and you realize that what you see is all that you will ever be. And then you accept it. Or you **** yourself. Or you stop looking in mirrors. I waste at least an hour every day lying in bed. Then I waste time pacing. I waste time thinking. I waste time being quiet and not saying anything because I'm afraid I'll stutter. And sometimes you stop and realize-some people are just not meant to be in this world. It's just too much for them. Once upon a time you had no clue why one self would want to even think about killing themselves, and now you know way to close and personally for comfort. Literally. People always ******* ask. Always ask "Why did she do it?"  Twenty aspirin, a little slit alongside the veins of the arm, maybe even a bad half hour standing on a roof: We've all had those. And somewhat more dangerous things, like putting a gun in your mouth. But you put it there, you taste it, it's cold and greasy, your finger is on the trigger, and you find that a whole world lies between this moment and the moment you've been planning, when you'll pull the trigger. That world defeats you. You put the gun back in the drawer. You'll have to find another way.
What was that moment like for her? The moment she lit the match. Had she already tried roofs and guns and aspirins? Or was it just an inspiration? I had an inspiration once. I woke up one morning and I knew that today I had to swallow fifty aspirin. It was my task: my job for the day. I lined them up on my desk and took them one by one, counting. But it's not the same as what she did. I could have stopped, at ten, or at thirty. And I could have done what I did do, which was go onto the street and faint. Fifty aspirin is a lot of aspirin, but going onto the street and fainting is like putting the gun back in the drawer. Ours was different because she just lit the match. Actually, it was only part of myself I wanted to ****: the part that she wanted to **** herself for, that dragged me into the suicide debate and made every window, kitchen implement, and subway station a rehearsal for tragedy. But in all reality..What's the big ******* deal? Lots of amazing people have committed suicide, and they turned out alright. But it was truly ironic, really - you want to die because you can't be bothered to go on living - but then you're expected to get all energetic and move furniture and stand on chairs and hoist ropes and do complicated knots and attach things to other things and kick stools from under you and mess around with hot baths and razor blades and extension cords and electrical appliances and weedkiller. Suicide was a complicated, demanding business, often involving visits to hardware shops. And if you've managed to drag yourself from the bed and go down the road to the garden center or the drug store, by then the worst is over. At that point you might as well just go to work, and I want to tell you about everything but I can't because I couldn't stand for you to have that look on your face all the time like I did. I just need you to look at me and think that I'm normal; that you're normal. I just really need that from you. You should want that from yourself.