I’m sorry.
I’m sorry it had to end this way. I’m sorry to put you through this.
Nothing I say would ever make you understand the pain I was going through. There’s no way to describe the suffering I was torturing myself with.
I tried. But five years is too long.
Too many nights of cutting my wrist, crying myself to sleep, then waking up the next morning and pretending everything was fine.
Everything wasn’t fine. Nothing was fine.
Imagining your funeral day after day after night after night is not normal.
Thinking of ways to **** myself had turned into an everyday routine.
I couldn’t remember the last time that I was truly happy.
A smile is too easy to fake.
I’m so sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry.
I can only imagine that you’re going through Hell right now. And I never wanted to hurt you but I couldn’t live the way I was.
I didn’t know how to fix it.
John, please don’t do anything stupid. Mom doesn’t need to lose both of her children. I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye.
And I know you’re probably thinking half of this is your fault because you’d caught me cutting more than once and didn’t say anything because I promised the last time would be the last time.
This isn’t your fault.
I know people will say that they never saw the signs. But I’m still trying to figure out how everyone has missed them.
Too many text messages telling people that I wasn’t happy and I didn’t want to live anymore. Too many text messages telling those people that I wanted to die.
Too many text messages begging for help.
Too many posts on social media asking someone to save me.
No one ever cares until something bad happens though. Because now I’m dead and everyone is trying to figure out what happened and why.
I only hope that when word gets around that I killed myself, all the people who received text messages or read a post that they ignored, will catch their breath because they know they should’ve done something.
But it’s too late.