Categories > Celebrities > Panic! At The Disco
I stared down at the blank page, pen trembling in my hand. This was something I had to do. But why? I pushed the thought away and brought a shaky hand down to the page
I'm sorry.
The two words didn't feel right. I wasn't sorry. I wanted to be here, I welcomed this. For the first time in a long time I was happy. I scratched the words out and tried again.
I can't take this anymore.
Those words were honest. They made sense, they were right. I couldn't take it anymore, take life. That's what drove me to this point. But why was I writing this letter? What was the point of a suicide letter? To explain your actions? I didn't care if anyone knew my reasons, no one had to. I mean, why would it matter to anybody? I was going to be dead. That thought alone was welcoming.
I didn't understand why people wrote these things, I didn't understand at all. Was it to spite those that hurt you? Yeah, you showed them. Showed them how much they actually mattered to you. So really you didn't prove anything other than what they didn't already know.
Maybe it's to provide some form of understanding? But sane people hardly ever understand suicide. Most think it's the 'coward's way out.' What people don't realize is that it takes some form of strength to want to face death.
I dropped my head and looked at the pill bottle sitting on the desk. I shook out a handful and just stared. I could do it, I thought, I should do it. My hand didn't move, I couldn't bring myself to actually put the pills in my mouth. I felt a tear slide out of my eye.
"Weak," I muttered. I was weak. I threw the pills against the wall and ripped up my letter, angry tears leaking from my eyes. I stood from my desk and threw my chair across the room. "You're fucking weak, Ryan!" I shouted.
I calmly walked to my full-length mirror and tore it from the wall, smashing it on my floor. "You're fucking weak!" I shouted again.
I picked up a shard of my shattered mirror and stared at my partial reflection. I took in my tear-stained face, my red-rimmed eyes, and I was actually glad. Glad that I hadn't swallowed the pills. Glad that I'd chosen life instead of the alternative.
I am not afraid to keep on living.
I'm sorry.
The two words didn't feel right. I wasn't sorry. I wanted to be here, I welcomed this. For the first time in a long time I was happy. I scratched the words out and tried again.
I can't take this anymore.
Those words were honest. They made sense, they were right. I couldn't take it anymore, take life. That's what drove me to this point. But why was I writing this letter? What was the point of a suicide letter? To explain your actions? I didn't care if anyone knew my reasons, no one had to. I mean, why would it matter to anybody? I was going to be dead. That thought alone was welcoming.
I didn't understand why people wrote these things, I didn't understand at all. Was it to spite those that hurt you? Yeah, you showed them. Showed them how much they actually mattered to you. So really you didn't prove anything other than what they didn't already know.
Maybe it's to provide some form of understanding? But sane people hardly ever understand suicide. Most think it's the 'coward's way out.' What people don't realize is that it takes some form of strength to want to face death.
I dropped my head and looked at the pill bottle sitting on the desk. I shook out a handful and just stared. I could do it, I thought, I should do it. My hand didn't move, I couldn't bring myself to actually put the pills in my mouth. I felt a tear slide out of my eye.
"Weak," I muttered. I was weak. I threw the pills against the wall and ripped up my letter, angry tears leaking from my eyes. I stood from my desk and threw my chair across the room. "You're fucking weak, Ryan!" I shouted.
I calmly walked to my full-length mirror and tore it from the wall, smashing it on my floor. "You're fucking weak!" I shouted again.
I picked up a shard of my shattered mirror and stared at my partial reflection. I took in my tear-stained face, my red-rimmed eyes, and I was actually glad. Glad that I hadn't swallowed the pills. Glad that I'd chosen life instead of the alternative.
I am not afraid to keep on living.
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