I was cleaning out my office drawers recently and found my final suicide note encased in plastic sheathing. My girlfriend had put it in there and marked it with a tiny note: “For your book, or reading, or presentation, or the movie…”
It might seem extremely macabre to others, but I thought it was quite sweet and very sensitive, especially the movie part. My girlfriend is a writer, too, so she knows quite well the value of archival material for research.
My eyes in the photo cover of my note look so pained — I clearly was in bad shape. “Hot, young and troubled” is how a friend labeled it. And, I’d have to agree.
It all seems to long ago. The note itself is from 2005; the actual photo is probably circa 2001/2002. I no longer feel any suicidal allure. Suicide is not cool, it’s not brave, it might sometimes seem like the only way to relieve intense and overwhelming psychic pain, but it’s really not.