For months I'd been getting ready, as my savings slowly drained away, unable to find work, unable to find meaning in this empty, vapid country. We're going to die someday anyway, right? I had three Oxys and six morphine pills, surely enough to do the job. When the day finally came, I spent hours walking through the city, cherishing the crisp air. I watched the people going about their lives and thought about how easily the world would continue without me. I returned to my little room and started drinking a 12-pack. After 10 beers I began dozing off and knew the time was right. I looked at the baggie of pills. "Am I really going to do this?" I thought. Then I swallowed them. I lay down on my bed, certain I would never wake up yet knowing I made the right decision. I couldn't believe it when I opened my eyes 12 hours later. I vomited repeatedly then I got angry because I WAS NOT DEAD. I realized why people jump off buildings, shoot themselves, drive into a semi, or point a gun at cops. Now I sit in my room two days later, crying my eyes out, drowning in sadness, more hopeless than ever and wonder—now what?—Anonymous
Don't Do It
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