He was a stranger that happened to be one my closest friends’
good friend. I heard stories about him. About the depression he had, and how he’d
been trying to fight it before he shot himself. I never met him, but one night,
a few days after his death, I cried for him. I cried for anyone that committed
suicide. I cried for everyone who’s still dealing with the urge to check out
early. I understand depression. I understand loneliness. I know the irksome
feeling that comes from not knowing why you can’t be happy with a life that
people perceive as a good life. But before that night, I didn’t think that
somehow I would understand suicide.
It’s logical, isn’t it? In a way. It's like the ultimate
expression of free will. It's like..leaving a room that you've been living in
since you could remember although you knew that you never signed anything to be
placed in that room. And then you realized it's a shitty room. And there's an
unlocked door to leave it forever. When you don't believe that the afterlife
exists, and you constantly feel this pain, but you don't know why, it makes
sense that you just want to vanish, right?
