The Hardest One Yet

The other day, I talked about something I’ve never before been able to talk about without choking up or abashedly closing off.

Special shout-out to my roommate and his lovely girlfriend (an old friend of mine) for this.

We dove deep into the pain of death at the the table. Now, death is not something I’m afraid to talk about. I know this grief, and I fully embrace and encourage others talking about it. It’s rather, my own almost-death, that I’ve never quite been able to share. I’ve written about it once, but to say out-loud, in a space where two people did not turn away and just kindly listened, compassionately validated, and then shared their experiences related to or around the subject... this, I have never done.

It feels liberating actually. Like a feather softly falling from the sky.

It’s hard to talk about suicide.

It’s interesting to be the kind of person who will turn her whole gaze to you and ask you the share your painful truth to heal, and only now have been able to vocalize her own story without hesitation.

I think there are many reasons for this.

Sometimes people just need to be heard without comparison or saying you’ve had the same thing happen.

Others have not been able to hear it and skirt around or awkwardly pause if the subject approaches.

Others still have been so wrapped up in their own misery that it’s impossible to show that I do in fact understand.

So perhaps, it’s never been quite the right moment, in which case, I’m honored and grateful that it finally arrived.

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I was 13. I had been planning my death in many ways. I would fantasize about it with a macabre pleasure. My parents hated me after all. If they bothered to be home, they fought and obsessed over my every imperfection. They made sure I knew what a big mistake I was. I had struggled assimilating to American life in school with two immigrant parents. In addition, I had to hide my culture constantly after 9/11 and always seemed to be missing something when it came to understanding the way I was supposed to interact. I had started closet drinking consistently and saw no way out.

I had hated guns and my father at the time, so when it came to choosing a method, death by his gun seemed like a perfect choice. I had been drafting goodbye letters and decided to go hold it again and practice facing the mirror.

I stepped quietly into the walk-in and reached up to a shelf just higher than me. I slipped my hand under the pile of sweaters and grabbed the gun. I ran my fingers over the cold, black frame and sat down. I faced myself in the mirror and held the barrel up to my temple. I stared darkly at the image of myself in my almost-death state. My finger played lightly with the trigger.

“Just pull it,” I heard my mind whisper, “Just feel what that final motion will feel like.”

As I placed my finger to pull the trigger, I heard my sister cry downstairs. I abruptly stopped and looked confused at my reflection, startled by the helpless noise of my precious little sibling. In that moment, I looked at the gun, and I realized something I had not before.

The safety wasn’t on.

A shiver went down my spine. In that moment, I realized the gravity of this mistake. In all my plans, I would have written in the note that it wasn’t my sisters fault - that my parents should take better care of them. In all my plans, I had never thought of one of my sisters walking upstairs and finding my lifeless body on the ground covered in blood.

How could I do that to them?

I felt so selfish.

It was then I decided I would never do that to them, no matter how worthless it seemed to continue in my own life, the horrific effect it would have on theirs would never be worth it. The thought haunts me.

I often say my sisters saved my life. And that’s the truth.

They have many times, and even on my darkest days, even in this most recent fall when I feel the weight of the world on my chest, I think of them, and how much I love them, and while it floods my eyes with tears, it gives me the hope and love to continue and fight with these demons.

Life can be so hard, but in these moments, think of how distraught you’d be if you lost someone you love, or that horrid feeling if you have already. Feel that pain and know that someone (probably many more than you know in fact) would feel that way about losing you.

Because YOU MATTER.

I mean it.

And I know if you knew me you’d see

Just how much you matter to me.