I’m haunted by the death of a man I’ve never met.

He was a bright, young, talented man with the world at his feet. Suddenly he decided that the world was not for him.

What really saddens and frightens me about his story is how easily my own could have ended the same way.  I see those left behind grieving, and know it could have been my own family and friends.

Most mornings I would wake up, disappointed that I had. Everything was meaningless,  hopeless,  and empty. I came close, once. In London. I imagined myself, respledent with shopping bags and my long red coat, flying through the air, tumbling towards my eternal peace. I thought of my love, thousands of miles away. I couldn’t leave him. I scared myself out of it, but the thoughts and desire didn’t go away.

People see suicide as a selfish act. But to a suicidal person, taking your own life is the most selfless thing you can do. You relieve your friends and family of the endless heavy burden that is knowing and carrying you. And it’s the only way to stop the crushing pain of just simply existing.  Breathing in and out is a chore. Sleep is only a temporary escape.

It’s better now. I realised that I needed medical attention and have sought it.  But it can never be eliminated, only controlled.  And some days I can’t control it. But at least I can see the light.

I wish that young man could have, too.

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