Suicide Notes

by Michael Thomas Ford

“How do you really know if anyone loves you?” When I didn’t answer, she looked at me. “Really, how do you know?” I thought about it for a minute. “I guess you just assume they do until they tell you they don’t,” I said. Sadie shook her head. “You need a better system than that.” “Maybe you ask,” I suggested. “If you have to ask, the answer is probably no. Do you think your parents love you?” I nodded. “Yeah,” I answered. “I do. They may be a little whacked, but they love me.” “Do they tell you they do?” “Sometimes,” I said. “My mom more than my dad, but I think that’s usually how it goes.” Sadie looked at me for a long time. “You’re lucky,” she said finally. I’ve been thinking about that ever since. Am I lucky? Am I lucky that I didn’t die? Am I lucky that, compared to the other kids here, my life doesn’t seem so bad? Maybe I am, but I have to say, I don’t feel lucky. For one thing, I’m stuck in this pit. And just because your life isn’t as awful as someone else’s, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t suck. You can’t compare how you feel to the way other people feel. It just doesn’t work. What might look like the perfect life—or even an okay life—to you might not be so okay for the person living it.