I don’t know why, but after a few months of watching those I loved suffer, I started to feel guilty. It was a terrible emotion, especially since I and those who knew me best knew that I hadn’t seen another option. It was do or die, and by October first, doing was no longer within my abilities.
After the guilt came pain with the realization of the lives I could have touched if I hadn’t killed myself. I saw them like lightning flashes in my mind. First there was an obstetrician who would have helped me with my first pregnancy. She would have liked to talk to me on the day her husband left her. And then there was a professor my senior year; he needed to be reminded of his late daughter when he saw my smile, my laughing eyes. It amazed me, but there were thousands of these flashes, like forward reaching memories. But these people would never get their beautiful moment. Because I killed myself.
And while I felt my soul being slowly pulled away from earth about a year after I killed myself, I couldn’t help but think that Heaven wouldn’t have the lake my family visited every summer. It wouldn’t have the laughter of my dear friend Ariana. It wouldn’t have readers with whom I could share my writing and make the world better. And I really started doubting my choice—no, my action. It still didn’t feel like it had been a choice.
Just a few days before I left the earth in a more permanent way, I realized that the pictures I had drawn for my grandma were quite old. She would never get another one. All my life I had been making pictures for her to hang on the fridge, almost like a scrapbook of my life and my drawing ability. And they were insignificant, really, in the great scheme of things. But I had never realized until I killed myself that she liked to look at them on days it seemed like winter was suffocating her. For years now, my pictures had brought her an occasional smile, and she would never have another one again.