Trigger warning: this post discusses suicide.
“Unused Suicide Note”
By Morgan Stabile
Pitch black to any outsider, but I, the sole permanent resident, know where everything is. I don’t have to wait for my eyes to adjust. The day went by like all the other. Routine. Routine. Routine. Stick to the Routine. Today felt different though. Heavier. Duller. The numbers swirling around my head making it impossible to sleep. How many calories is in one apple slice? That piece of gum I swallowed by accident?
Technique One: Make lists.
Favorite technique. Ease mind, making lists, of happy things, happy things, things I’ll do when I’m pretty. Pretty. Skinny. But it’s harder to do tonight. After staring at the mirrored doors of my closet in the in the dark for an hour, hoping to see some change, any sign of change. Every night my hopes swallowed up by the every growing blob starting back at me. Thick thunder thighs, wide linebacker shoulders, chicken wings flapping under my arms, obese outstretched pouch holding my large intestines. I wish I could reach in and rip them out. I’m not using them anyway and it might take off a few inches. I used to almost see her, that beautiful, skinny, girl inside of me. The emptiness inside will be gone once I see her in that mirror, that day seems like it will never come and at night laying here in bed again that void eating away.
Technique Two: Music
Doesn’t work as either. Favorite playlist. Classical, David Nevue. Make it Louder. Make it Louder. Make it Louder. Still can’t drown out the horrible thoughts circling my brain. Today I can’t push them away. Change song, Yellow Card. Make out Loader. Drown them out. I don’t know if I want to die but I don’t know if I can go on live. Louder. Can’t I even call what I’ve been doing living? Louder. I don’t know if I could do it. I have the pills. I could. No. No. No. But why continue living if I can’t feel anything? Louder. Louder. Louder. I could do it. Stop thinking. Stop thinking. Stop thinking. But I can’t stop thinking cause my overtired brain is to weak to stop the spiral of self ridicule. Flabby. Fat. Ugly. The voices in my head are insomniacs, just like me.
Outside voice I need an outside voice. Sarah! She’s asleep, it’s past 9. Try anyway:
Sarah Is Awesome
Hey are you up
The void inside growing bigger, bigger, wider, with every breath taken, treating a collapse from the inside out.The voices in my head are insomniacs, just like me. Their whisperings are the main case for my lack so sleep the past two days. Suffering the whole night, each syllable cuts deeper and deeper, leaving the word ugly and tattooed inside my eyelids. It’s becoming too much. I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I can’t do this forever. Time is passing so slowly. Every minute feels like a year. 1 am. If i’m gonna do It had to be before 6. 1:05 am. If i’m gonna do It had to be before 6. Turn on the desk light. Stare into the eyes of the monster in my mirror. Turn off light.
Stop thinking. Stop thinking. Stop thinking. Check phone. 1:15 am. Stop thinking. Stop thinking. Stop thinking. Check phone. 1:20 am. Stop thinking. Stop thinking. Stop thinking. Check phone 1: 26 am. Stop thinking. Stop thinking. Stop thinking. 1:31 am.
Sarah Is Awesome
Insomniatic episode tonight
Might be late to english tomorrow
Turn on light. Open the desk draw. It smells like wicker and leather. List making journal becomes letter making journal. I don’t know what I’m doing. A flow of questions replace the ocean of insults for a moment. What do I say? Who do I address it to?
March 24th 2010
I’m just so
No. No. No. No. Scribble. Scribble. Scribble.
March 24th 2010
I’m sorry for being so selfish. I know that
What do I want them to know? How do I say it? I don’t want them to be sad? They didn’t notice that I’m sad. No one can see me. I never do anything for myself. Ironic first and last thing I’m doing for myself. Am I doing this for myself? Scribble. Scribble. Scribble.
March 24th 2010
I know that you loved me. It didn’t happen because I didn’t think you loved me, promise. This had nothing to do with you, it’s all me. It’s hard to believe but I did this for me. Sorry for being selfish. I don’t want you to think that I didn’t love you. I do but I know you might not believe me. It didn’t happen because I didn’t love you.
So cleish. So unoriginal. I couldn’t have been a writer anyway.
I didn’t love me.
I’m sorry that I never told you how fucked up I was. I’m sorry I wasted the life you gave me. God is supposed to give you what he thinks you can handle but I think he overestimated me.
I guess this is good enough. How do I sign it? Do I sign it? Slowly place it down opened. I open the draw, gotta find something heavy to keep it open. My pet rock from fifth grade seems fitting. Havey, just like me. Gray, just like me. Frizzy yarn hair, just like me. I stand in my door way hand on fake copper knob. It would have felt cold if I wasn’t so numb. My bedrooms the coldest in the house; above the garage. Trying not my make a sound the normal creaking of my 1970’s hollow fake wood door is amplified; stopping my heart prematurely as it swings open. Hm hollow and fake, just like me. The bathroom light is already on. I look down at the pink tiles. Four rectangles around a black square, making another square. It always give me headaches. I slide the heavy mirrored door the the medicine cabinet. It will be like going a sleep. All the articles say it’s like going to sleep. I could uses some sleep.
Back propped up against the side of my bed. Wiggling my toes in the carpet. In front of that monster in my mirror stares back at me. Crack. Crack. Crack. Alone. Its red puffy eyes staring back at at me. Crack. Crack. Crack. Have I been crying this whole time? The clapes is beginning. The darkness slowly leading out of my stomach, through my bloodstream into my brain. Crack. Crack. Crack. Legs crossed, the bottle in lap, nervously twisting that child proof cap. Crack. Crack. Crack. I try to tell want myself to keep fighting, but all those sleepless night have taken their toll. Crack, Crack, Crack. I’m tired. I’m weak. I’m worthless I’m nothing. Crack, Crack,……Pop.
The pop resonates throughout my body, making my ears ring. The friendly little white pills staring back at me. Little. My brother face flashes in front of me. Who’s gonna find me? His innocent smile. What if he finds me? Slightly freckled cheeks. What will it to him if he finds me? Moppy hair. I can’t do that to him. Baby blue eyes. I can’t fuck him up like that. He’s still a baby. Put it back. Put it back. Take two first. Put it back. Hide it all under the bed. Pills, journal, pen, pet rock, everything. I’ll wait till he’s out of the house one night. A night he’s not in the house. A night he’s not in the house. Home alone.
Third technique: Count Backwards
This post comes from Morgan Stabile, a phenomenal writer who has contributed two other pieces to our community before: “He Called Me The “T” Word” and “My Reflection: Days and Nights With My Eating Disorder“. Be sure to check them out and leave her a comment below.
Always remember you are not alone.
You are loved.
Want to submit to Dear Hope and share your story, art, or article related to mental health? Email firstname.lastname@example.org