To the Girl Who Wrote My Suicide Note:
You didn’t think I’d make it this far.
Hell, I didn’t think I’d make it this far.
But I did.
I’m not going to pretend it was easy. It was harder than anything I’ve ever done. I think what surprised me the most, through all of it, was how calm I felt. Death seemed like such a rational option that you almost convinced me that I wasn’t in any danger.
You lingered behind me every day for months, getting closer and closer, louder and louder. You told me I wasn’t good enough. You told me I was unattractive and inadequate. You told me no one loved me. You told me it wasn’t enough to exist and call it a life. You told me it would be easier to just give up. And before I could protest, you were writing, and writing and writing. When I realized what you had written, I decided enough was enough.
It’s required therapy and a lot more effort than I thought I had the energy for. It was uncomfortable and painful and difficult.
But I made it.
You thought I was worthless.
I am not worthless.
You thought I was nothing.
I am not nothing.
I have never been nothing. I am someone’s sister, best friend, roommate, lunch buddy, employee, teacher, mentor. I am an actor, singer, dancer, poet, artist, creator of beautiful things. I am not nothing. I am someone and I am something.
You thought I was unloveable.
I am worthy of love.
I am loved by my professors, who listen to all of my rants. By my therapist, who believes I’m strong enough to grow. By my mentor, who picks me up and sets me back on my feet every time I feel myself slipping. By my friends, who always have my back. By my family, who sat through all of my prepubescent performances of “Tomorrow.” By my roommates, who listen to me snore every night without complaint. By my brother, who looks up to me. By my fish (Swimothy) who appreciates that I bring him food regularly.
If I had let you speak for me, I would have missed out. And, I would have been missed.
Yes, some days I’m just trying to get to tomorrow. Some days I’m simply trying to survive.
But that’s OK.
Because I choose to live. I choose to breathe. I choose to swim instead of sink. And every morning I make that choice over and over again.
This letter is a reminder to the girl who wrote my suicide note. It is a reminder to myself: I am worth it, even when I don’t believe it. I am worth it.
I am fighting for myself. I’m still fighting. And I’m going to keep fighting.
I hope we never meet again. But if we do, know this: I am stronger and more resilient than you’ll ever be.
The Girl Who Lived