The Day I Died

by E.B. Black

Sometimes living is harder than dying, but that doesn't mean that being alive isn't worth it.

Things get even worse once you kill yourself.”

living meant that I had tried to kill myself and failed. It wasn’t even a possibility I had considered before now. I’d always known I couldn’t do anything right, but killing myself? I thought I’d at least be able to succeed with that.

Because I was always crying and just didn’t want it to hurt anymore. Because I was tired of always feeling like such a burden to everyone I cared about.

“It’s just too bad that your mother found you on the floor in time. Her life really would be better without you in it.”

“It’s like there’s less color in everything. The sky is darker. The world is dimmer. Things that used to be fun, like singing, just make me tired now. I’ve been trying so hard for so long now that I deserve to rest. It’s selfish for you to ask me to withstand it when I can barely get out of bed most days.”

Maybe the only thing to blame for suicide is depression.

I know that it is silence that kills people, silence that rips people apart,