I’m twenty. And it’s three people my age I know who’ve taken their own lives. Three. Three people with their whole lives ahead of them, three people with families and friends who love them. Three people who didn’t want to live any more.
You never know what to do when someone dies. It’s like an emptiness, a loss, a listlessness, a sense that there is this whole, huge world and you are a tiny grain of meaningless sand. You remember those moments, the times you laughed together, the times they made you happy, the times you noticed something nice about them or they complimented you. Their smile. You remember being inches from them, so real and alive, so there, with you in that second. And now the world is tilted, not the way it should be.
I feel sad because I would have done anything in my power to make it better. Even if they weren’t suicidal I still would have done it. But then, wouldn’t we all? Maybe it still wouldn’t have been enough.
I know they’re ‘in a better place’ and they ‘don’t have to suffer any more’ but I still feel a crushing sadness at the loss of life and the amazing people they were, and the equally amazing things they could have done.
And always sad that I couldn’t help, that they didn’t feel that anybody could.