As I stood with the knife to my chest, I kept thinking about the burden I would be removing from the world. My girlfriend wouldn’t blame herself for not being able to make me feel better. My friends wouldn’t have to try and cheer me up. My boss wouldn’t have to find people to cover for me when I couldn’t get out of bed. I would no longer bring anyone down.
People say that suicide is selfish. It’s not. Sure, I wanted this seemingly unbearable life to be over too, but truthfully, that was the last thing on my mind as I stood in my kitchen, poised, ready to end my life. I had written my final thoughts and come to terms with my choice. Purgatory, hell, or any other form of post-mortal condemnation couldn’t be worse than the dark, deep and lonely place to which I had sunk. My sweaty hands gripped the handle of the kitchen knife. I said my last prayer to a God that I was not sure was listening, closed my eyes, and braced myself against the soon to be crimson refrigerator. I heard movement in the hall. I panicked. This isn’t part of the plan! I thought. I threw the knife in the sink and turned, ready to play business and usual. As I locked eyes with my roommate, only three words left his lips. “Brian. I saw.”
I tried to look confused and to formulate a convincing denial. Three eternal seconds passed. Then all of my resolution melted into a torrent of emotion. I fell to my knees, sobbing. Half from shame and half from complete and utter hopelessness.