Part of what kept me alive

was wanting to make sure that my parents knew that i loved them and that this was not their fault
i did not want them to feel guilty

i wanted to show them that there still was a reason to live even if i was sick

that life was not going to end here

i wanted to bring them life back

the only way i could do that was by staying alive

no matter how much i had to endure i had to stay alive for them

until one day i had had enough and i felt that it was time for mercy

mercy from them, from God, from life, from my body, from myself

i was no longer going too suffer for anybody

my suffering was not going to be a sacrifice

i was ready to die

i did not care anymore if god would punish me or not

i felt ready to leave my parents, i felt that i had done the best that i could and that i had reached my level of endurance

my father was lying depressed and forsaken in his bed

my mother was downstairs completing her work, making assignments

she had distanced herself from me, for a few months she was cold and distant and showed me little love

my little brother was in england, writing e-mails from afar about the doctors i should see

my older brother, i no longer felt a responsibility towards him

i had my own will to live burnt out of me

what was left was hope and i had lost it

the love i had for my parents and brothers

my friends, i knew that they would lead meaningful lives without me

some people have to die by their own hands

it does not make sense, it is cruel, it had been going on for two years already

pain that eradicated whatever semblance of identity and meaning i had created and lived in my life


It started changing after my suicide attempt.