Everyone who has considered suicide has their own reason why. Suicide is never the answer, no matter what the reason, but whatever your why is, it is important and deserves to be heard. This is the purpose of a suicide note.
For me, writing a suicide note is therapeutic. I never write when I am in crisis. I know that under duress, I will forget someone or something. When I am suicidal, I’m too overwhelmed to put my thoughts down on paper.
Each time I start a suicide note or poem, I take the attitude that I have only one chance to get it right. The words must be perfect, so I rewrite, revise and start over many times. I spell check and fix the grammar. Ironically this engages my creative mind, where my brain forgets it’s trying to kill me. It is where I realize at my core that it is impossible to get it right. A life, your life, my life, is worth so much more than you can possibly compose.
Writing a suicide note is something you have to do yourself. It is your unique thoughts, your purpose and reason but there are some common themes that come up such as feeling sorry for the pain you will cause, being tired and exhausted, dealing with chronic pain and having a feeling of hopelessness. Your note will be different from everyone else’s. You can’t use ChatGPT. I already tried. You have to do it yourself because you deserve the effort. My simplest suicide note was 25 words long.
Please don’t cry.
Be happy with the time we had.
Use our memories as your palette
and paint a beautiful dream
where we’re together again.
I have tried so many times to explain my thoughts, to approach the problem from many angles with different therapists and pdocs. But each time, I’ve failed. I’ve never made my distorted perspective understood. A psyche nurse once told me flat out that I was wrong and dismissed my whole worldview as nonsense. You might not agree with my explanation, but you can at least acknowledge my struggle is real.
I wrote one of my suicide notes in the form of a dialogue:
“My thoughts don’t matter. They’re written in water and forgotten in the wind. In other words, I am nothing.”
Most people then say, “So what? You’re kind, patient and loved. Your integrity and honesty are respected, your loyalty is cherished, your humour enjoyed. You are blessed with health and family and everything you need.”
“I know” I reply, “and I truly appreciate all of this, but I want to amount to something, not just be fortunate.”
“Perhaps one day you will,” goes the familiar appeal. “You never know. Don’t give up. Be determined. Work hard. Be confident. Have hope. You can’t know the future.”
“But I can. I’m living in it right now, and nothing has changed. Over my entire life, I have always tried to do what was right and watched as my life’s passion eroded with each new priority. I’m tired. And now, the very act of living, completing what has to get done, seems like a failure. I just want it to end. The hopelessness, the fear, and the constant critic in my head. I’ve lived with them all for too long. All I’ve ever known is this war, this endless battle. There’s nothing wrong with wanting it to end. To wish that it didn’t is cruel. Why do I have to keep fighting? At times it’s deafening, and I’m so exhausted. Why can’t I just lay down in no man’s land and let this battle fall silent around me? Why can’t that be the end?”
The why to suicide is hard to explain; actually, it isn’t. The problem is it is hard for others to understand. I have no past trauma. I had a happy and carefree childhood. I had loving parents. I am not wealthy, but I have never been in need. I am healthy. My family is healthy.
I feel like an imposter. What can I say? What will make any sense? I’m living a lie, tapping words into my phone that are selfish and cruel, all the while smiling and being polite.
Everyone has been so kind to me my entire life. I was afraid of being bullied as a child, but I never was. By choice, I played a lot on my own. I would even tell friends I could not play after school just to have time for myself.
I know I am not a burden. And I know the world will not be a better place without me. I wish everyone could understand how much they’ve meant to me. This decision is not about them. I love you all; that is why I feel physically ill thinking about the pain I’ll cause. Right in the pit of my stomach, I’m crushed.
I see my family soar; their confidence and success are spellbinding. I love them all so deeply. So why am I doing this? Why am I being so hurtful, so selfish? Why am I sending them hurling off course? I can see Jacob’s and Hannah’s tears. They dissolve my heart into a pool of sorrow.
I know that I’ll rip apart lives and redefine them. I know the pain I’ll cause, the anger and hatred I’ll raise, the deep wounds of sorrow I’ll inflict, all against my very nature; against the life I have always lived. But I can’t go on like this: my mind won’t stop, and the future won’t heal it. I know no matter how many words I say or write, no one will ever fully understand. What more do you need to know? My brain is broken.
Here is another attempt at a suicide note:
I am sorry, but this has always been inevitable. I have struggled with the thoughts my entire life, and this past year I have reached out for help, but they never stop.
I have been travelling towards this point my whole life, and during that journey, I have done my best to always be kind and helpful to everyone I met because I knew one day I would cause a great deal of pain.
I know you will be angry and sad and confused. It’s O.K. Believe me, there is nothing you could have done or said to change this outcome. The thoughts were never silent.
Some of you have known me in passing, and others knew me very well, but no one truly understood this relentless core that burned within me. I didn’t let you.
Please remember me for who I was, not for what I’ve done or could have been. Remember me as a kind man who liked to write. I am sorry.
I then wrote personalized letters to my wife, my children, my therapist and my family doctor. After many drafts and revisions, I was happy with the words and I finally wrote them down on note cards. The whole process took over a month. I had searched and selected a Blue Dragonflies style of card and waited for it to be delivered, then carefully hand-wrote each one. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done. I felt no ill will. Only guilt. I did my best to comfort each recipient. I wanted to leave them a part of myself that they could hold onto for the rest of their lives. And yet, after all of that, if I were to complete suicide tonight, I would not use those cards because I know the words are not enough.
Lately, I have been trying to use poetry. Clearly, it is not as explicit as a note, but it is much better at expressing my state of mind. It’s uniquely me.
Let’s get this right.
I have only one chance.
My children are the best of me.
They embody my compassion,
my patience,
my humour,
my smile,
my kindness.
I have brought them
on this journey,
holding their hands,
guiding them,
reassuring them
that all will be fine
Their lives have meant everything to me.
I can see myself in them
And I know I’ll live on.
But
I can only take them so far.
Now I must go on my own path
I must go on alone.
I wish I could take them further
but the dark thoughts won’t allow.
Where I go now
I must go alone.
I am sorry.
I am truly sorry.
Words are never enough, but by the time I am on a final draft or last revision, suicide is usually the furthest from my mind. It’s the composition that matters, not the intended action described. Each note feels like a regeneration. I walk away a new person. The suicidal thoughts for now are quelled, and my mind is relieved.
.
Every person at risk has a different set of circumstances as to why they want to complete suicide. Psyche experts have distilled all these reason into ten categories which are not mutually exclusive. I check a number of boxes.
The first is Depression, a mental illness. I feel this one goes without saying. I have been diagnosed as having Major Depressive Disorder. So I check that box.
The next is Traumatic Stress. This is such a clear case of cause and effect. I have no recollection of any trauma in my life besides attempting suicide and the consequent psychiatric care. I recognize, though, that others have suffered so much. They just want relief.
Substance abuse and impulsivity are also recognized reasons for suicide. I drink a beer daily to combat suicide intentions, but I would hardly classify that as abuse. Moreover, I have never taken or used recreational drugs. Impulsivity is dangerous for those with chronic suicide ideation, that is why I have used a number of strategies over the years to slow my intentions. (See my Rules of Suicide and Strategies chapters)
Loss or fear of loss can also lead someone to complete suicide. I don’t think this is a factor in my case. Certainly, a loss of control and direction in my life is something that I fear, but I am not sure this is a SI factor.
Chronic pain and illness. Other than being overweight due, ironically, to brain meds, I am physically a very healthy middle-aged male. My cholesterol might be a bit high, but whose isn’t.
The only thing chronic about me is my suicide ideation.
Feeling like a burden to others. I definitely don’t feel like a burden. I know that my death will leave a huge hole. I will burden the lives of the loved ones I leave behind.
Social Isolation. I like my own space. I’m an introvert, but I’m also very much engaged with those around me. I do my best to ensure everyone is happy and content. I also recognize I am less likely to have my SI blossom around other people. If I feel particularly dangerous, I seek out company, not to discuss my thoughts but rather just to be with others so I am not isolated.
Cry for help. A failed suicide is often a way of telling people I have had enough. I assure you, though, my suicide attempts are not a cry for help; instead, they are deliberate attempts to finish my life. It is chronic and inevitable. In fact, being told I need help is a trigger for me. I am fiercely independent. I don’t want to be anyone’s job.
Accidental. There is nothing accidental about my suicidal thoughts or attempts. I would be offended if anyone suggested that was why I died.
Hopelessness. This is the emotion that weighs the heaviest, that life is hopeless, and the future brings no relief. If someone asked me to sum my SI in one word, I would reply, “hopelessness.”
Let me try one last time:
The voice never stops.
It constantly berates me.
Throwing the past in my face.
Shredding my future.
Shattering my hopes.
This can’t go on.
I’m tired.
So very tired.
I can’t keep picking myself up.
I can’t keep hiding how I feel.
I’m stupid.
I’m wrong.
I’m not enough.
A suicide note does not necessarily have to be a string of words. I tried a suicide video once. I collected together pictures of myself over the years, from when I was a little boy up to graduating from university, to getting married, to having a baby boy and then a baby girl. I continued right up to the present day.
I set it all to the My Chemical Romance song Welcome to the Black Parade. I picked that song for the lyric about carrying on after you are dead. It took me a while to gather together and scan all the photos. Each one invited me to relive all those moments, to look back on all I have done. In the pics, I didn’t see what I hadn’t accomplished but rather what I had. I could see the smiles on my face and those around me. I was very proud of how the video turned out. The music and video sync up really well. As it stands, it remains on a thumb drive, plugged into my laptop. Every once in a while, I watch it and I smile with a sense of accomplishment.
In the end, creativity is my greatest counter to SI. When I am caught up in writing, drawing, maze-making, or video editing, my thoughts relax and settle into the activity. Even as I write some of the most devastating words, it counters the actual call to action. For me, finding the right words or music is as much about delaying suicide as it is about explaining it.
Let my life be my suicide note.
Remember the happy times
we shared together.
Don’t focus on these last words.
They’re not the real me.
They’re flat thoughts
with deflated meaning.
They’re all I can think of
in this last moment.
How I lived was who I was:
patient,
compassionate,
thoughtful,
and creative.
No one ever truly knew
the constant thoughts
that hollowed out my mind.
I didn’t let you.
Please don’t let this one mistake
change who I was to you.
Please remember me as
a kind man who liked to write.
