View Full Version : Mirrored Suicide Notes - An Awareness Piece

04-20-12, 03:23 PM
I wrote this about two years ago, shortly after trying to take my own life.

Looking the mirror in the morning can be more than just a simple look at your own countenance. When you look in that clean sheet of glass and you see the bloodshot amber eyes that glare back at you, it's the first thing that stands out. It's so obvious that you haven't in weeks, and you spend all of your nights wide awake, crying. Your eyes mask the pain that you're bottling inside, every dark thought that crosses your mind. Most of all, you notice, there's no emotion there. You've learned to mask it, and well at that. One would look at you and the first words that would come to mind would probably be "mysterious charm." Moving away from your eyes, there's a deep new scar above your right eyebrow. You move pale hand up to trail a finger across it and remember everything about how it got there. You remember the blood running down the side of your face and the spine chilling scream that ripped out of your vocal cords. Moving down your face, you see a pair of pink lips that are the envy of teenage girls everywhere. They're full and soft. A lucky inheritance from your father's side of the family. You almost hate to look at them now because you remember finding your father, dead, pale and drained of life.

Realizing that you've become so hideously broken makes you so angry that you send a cream blur of a fist into the glass of the mirror, shattering your reflection into a million pieces. The skin of your hand is torn apart and you gasp as crimson blood trails down your arm, staining the snow white smoothness of your complexion. Falling into a sitting position on the bathroom floor, the blood continues to leak from your hand, onto the linoleum floor. Everything seems to slow down, and give you a few minutes to think about where your life is headed, and how much insanity you've developed in the past months.

These thoughts send you through a tragic whirlwind, and you feel your body temperature drop a few degrees. The saccharine sweetness of the blood loss you're experiencing feels almost like a high. You gently turn your wrist around to look at the damage that has occurred. The glass has torn a violent looking gash down your wrist, dangerously near major arteries and veins. A thought crashes through your head--"Maybe this could finally put an end to this pain." Maybe it could. Maybe you wouldn't have to hear your subconscious telling you what a failure you are ever again.

Your eyes land softly on the cherry wood door of the bathroom. You consider the living, breathing relatives sleeping in the surrounding rooms, how they might feel if they woke up to their daughter dead on the bathroom floor. You wonder if your mother would scream. Your beautiful, calm, loving mother. The one who had always been directly at your side whenever something was going wrong, but it was never enough to quell the pain. You wonder if your father would shed a tear. He had never been a very emotional man, always keeping things bottled inside. You realize that you're very much like him, even though he's not your biological parent. This seems to make matters even worse. Your eyes shoot to the faux gold door knob, the little button that was considered a lock. You stand up, shaky on your feet because of the river of maroon hatred on the floor. You lock the door before even thinking twice. You close your eyes and laugh--your last decision, and it's actually all yours.

Painful considerations take over your mind again. What would your friends think? Your girlfriend? Well...they saw this coming, didn't they? It's not the best kept secret that you never were happy. Always sad. Never once did a smile light up your face. There was nothing that any of them could have done to help you with this, right? Right, you think, as you pick up a jagged shard of glass from the destroyed mirror. You remember this previous outburst of anger. It was meant to happen, meant to help you make this choice for your self. You position the glass at your left hand, right under your third finger. Your final meaningful act--you decide to start the cut there because of that old wives tale about the 'vena amoris.' It was supposedly a blood vessel running directly to the heart. You decide to destroy whatever it may be, to signify that love doesn't matter. Nothing left to lose now, you think, and you press the glass into the skin, dragging it all the way down your wrist, ripping through skin, muscle, and veins.

The glass falls from your shaking hand, and you ignore the scream that has built up inside of you. You keep it there--like everything else. You sink to the floor and feel numb, a calming kind of numb. But there's also a discomfort that comes with knowing that you're soaking yourself in your own blood. Too late now. Another thought shocks you. "Dad is going to be so mad that I stained the new tiling with blood." But yet again, it's too late to even care about that now. Your line of vision is starting to go blurry.

Memories course through your body at this point. Some of them are beautiful and warm, like a summer day in the backyard. Some of them chill you to the core--all of things you wish you could have forgotten. You feel like you're suddenly cradled in the arms of someone you love, and you're getting extremely tired.

The blur in front of your eyes grows stronger, and you know that you're going to pass out soon. You smile, because you think all of the pain is over. Gone with the wind. Truth is, this is only the beginning. When your parents wake up, it starts all over again. They will never be the same. The Latin quote that your mother always used pops into your mind--

"Omnia vincit amor." -- Love conquers all.

Could love have conquered the pain that destroyed your happiness? Could it have? Could love have saved your life? Saved your family from having to find you like this? It's far too late for you to find out now and you start sobbing heavily, your body wracked with the guilt of having done this to yourself. It was as your mother always said-- "Suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem." You realized you made this decision without thinking. And now you can't help but know, deep inside, that you were so wrong.

"I'm so sorry, you guys. So sorry. I love you." You sob, as if your parents can hear you.

A silencing black starts to appear in front of your eyes and you sob even harder. You know it's over.

You pass out before you can count to three.

Your parents find you later that morning--and you were right, it was only the beginning of a new line of pain.

Before you take your life--consider one thing.

You could save a life.

Your own.

Think twice.