My Father and I Haven’t Spoken Since I Told Him I Wanted to End My Life
It’s been three years and another hurt in the making
Three years ago, I sent my father a text: “I think, I just might end my life.” I sent another: “I’m sad. All the time. I can’t go outside because the sun hurts my eyes.”
The winter sun was an assault. I longed for New York and its palette of stormy grays because the act of moving, crawling, from one room to another had become something of a victory. The days repeated themselves with minor variations. I couldn’t work, I couldn’t think. I watched torture films and considered them comedies. I wondered why everyone made such a fuss over Pasolini’s Salò because I’d seen worse play out online.
My body was a house and it was in the throes of a four-alarm fire, yet I slept through the sirens and the flames. I played normal when a friend from New York visited, and when she left I spiraled downward. I wrote a story about ending my life, published it on Medium and immediately deleted it. The next morning, I woke to a text message from my friend that read if I didn’t call her right this second she would call the police.
Another friend called me from work whispering through tears. I was scaring her. Could I please... get help? I could hear the hurt in her throat and I said I…
