I should feel terrified, I should feel like running away, should feel some king of primeval fear. I had killed myself, and up to that moment, everything led me to believe that there was life after death. My catholic mind (sort of catholic, actually) could only remember that it meant I was condemned to hell, to an eternity of suffering. But the truth is that I only felt sadness not because of the ominous future ahead, but because I hadn’t been strong enough.
I had lived a good life, but at some point that stopped being enough. At some point, everything I had wasn’t enough to go on, there was something missing in my life, my present lacked something that allowed me to see a future that justified my presence in the world of the living. But I couldn’t see it, and spent years fighting the weakness to give in. For some reason, I had finally quit. I think I was just tired of fighting and lying to myself that everything was going to change.
The funny thing is that, when I realized nothing would change, I made a decision and did something that would in fact change everything.
I contemplated my body in the tub, I wasn’t naked. I didn’t want to be found naked, didn’t want people I did not know to see my body. I was always ashamed of it, and never actually felt comfortable with it. In fact, I felt always ashamed of everyone. I was never able to understand how people get naked in locker rooms, it never made any sense to me. There should be privacy, but there wasn’t. Everyone used to say that it wasn’t natural to feel ashamed, after all, we’re all human and share the same characteristics (at least people the same gender). But I didn’t agree with that, all I saw was shame. That’s why I killed myself in clothes, so that anyone could see what shamed me.
While I contemplated my body and thought about the frivolity of nudity, I became aware that none of that mattered. Nobody would look at what I thought they would, all they’d see would be a lifeless boy. Clothes stained by diluted blood, a bathroom destroyed by water mixed with plasma and the everlasting memory of someone who was too weak to fight for what he wanted. Someone who preferred to give in to the cowardly, inviting and comfortable hypothesis of the suicide instead of keep on living and showing the strength to change the status quo he hated so much.
Someone who had been narcissistic to the point he thought he was the only one who suffered, and that he would be the only one affected by the decision. Someone who didn’t think about the people in his life, someone who hadn’t thought about his own parents…