I contemplated killing myself tonight.
It wasn’t the first time.
I don’t know what the point of my existence is. I don’t know what I’m doing with my life. I’m not popular. I’m not a good person. Why am I alive when people so much greater than me are dying? It doesn’t seem fair. What is the point of me?
Who would miss me, really miss me, if I were gone?
The girl I am undeniably and completely in love with said that, were I to exit her life, she would not be phased. My friends- such as they are- would grieve, perhaps, for a year, maybe two- but they would move on. They would forget me. I am nothing significant.
I do not do volunteer work. I am selfish. I am sarcastic, snarky, and according to many, I am cold, unfeeling, robotic. The world would be a better place without me in it.
This was my train of thought as I sat in my Jeep, keys in the ignition but not yet turned, looking up at the dark sky over the house across the street.
And then I hated myself. So much.
My parents.
My family.
Those few friends I have who are truly and irrefutably important to me.
I am an only child.
I am a damned good friend.
They would miss me.
My parents cannot have another child. They’ve spent 18 years raising this one.
And I hated myself for lapsing into such a selfish state of mind as to consider leaving them.
I do not live a horrible life. So how can I possibly be so selfish as to consider killing myself?
I don’t know why I live while so many others of a much kinder nature die every day.
But I can strive to make myself a better person; I can strive to turn myself into someone who deserves to live, someone who is not so selfish, or cold, or unemotional.
I’m depressed. So what? I found a reason to keep living. I’ll cry myself to sleep, and I will wake up in the morning glad that I am alive, and that everyone I love is alive. I will attempt to stop these selfish thoughts.
Because I have reasons to live.
Even a single reason to live is enough to outweigh all those that pile up in favor of death.