ALEXA ROSALSKY
On the surface, I seem like a normal American teenager.
I go to school, hang out with my friends, play some sports, and spend way too much time on the internet. But beneath that seeming normality, everything is not okay.
I have never attempted suicide, but I’ve considered it. I’ve even written out a list of pros and cons. Looking back, I’m amused by how rationally I approached it. In addition to my list, I began composing notes to all the people who were important to me, even after I’d scrapped the idea of killing myself. I was hedging my bets in case I found myself back in that place someday. It was not a happy place to be, and I didn’t think anyone would understand unless I explained it in writing.
It started when I was fifteen. Year after year, the pile of letters grew along with my regrets, notes saying how sorry I was, how I wished there had been another way. No one ever saw them except for me. Some were tear-stained and some were written with such anger that my pen tore through the paper. All of my fears, regrets, and hopes were written down in letters that I would never send, addressed to people who would never read them.
One day, I realized how strange that was. I’d just finished writing another letter, put it in an envelope, and hid it.
That’s not how letters work, I thought.
I was compiling a diary of depression under the guise of letters to friends and it wasn’t okay. I knew it wasn’t okay, but I had no idea what to do. I couldn’t send the letters.
I’m not big on sharing, even the small things, so revealing everything I had kept hidden for so long all at once was terrifying.
I couldn’t even consider it.
I still can’t.
It would be too much.
But doing nothing, continuing on that path was just as bad. It took me another few months to realize that. And then things started to get really bad.
I’ve never been much of a troublemaker, I don’t tend to act out or do anything that is considered rebellious, but I do have a temper. I was pretty bad at not getting angry. I would lash out at people for the smallest things, slamming a door so hard that the house would seem to shudder. The anger led to doing more things I regretted—to more little notes hidden away, to more anger, and a downward spiral.
I could have (probably, maybe) stopped anytime I wanted, but I didn’t want to because the anger felt much better than the hopelessness. But I knew something needed to change. The pile of letters was just too deep.
I wanted to give up.
I didn’t want to go on living anymore, everything was going wrong and it all seemed to be my fault. It was scary, like monsters in the closet scary, and being brave was getting so hard.
I didn’t want to put on a happy face and pretend things were okay.
I wanted to be done.
So I went for a walk.
I found myself standing on the top of a cliff. It was a long way down, and I felt calm, happier than I had been in a while. Being up high, away from everyone, everyone I knew, alone where there was nothing to hold me back, nothing. All I wanted to do was jump, to let go of everything and have one moment of absolute freedom, to end the helplessness and hopelessness and pain.
It was the first time I’d felt at peace in a long time.
I didn’t jump.
I wanted to, but I didn’t.
I don’t know why.
Even though at the time, it seemed to make perfect sense.
I’m glad I didn’t jump.
And I decided that writing what were basically suicide notes whenever I was upset was probably not the healthiest means of coping. I stopped writing angry things. I tried not to bottle up all of the bad feelings inside. It was not fun. It was not easy. I did not always succeed. Sometimes while taking notes in English class, I’d realize that I was no longer writing about symbolism. Instead, I was writing things about myself, things that I did not like. Knowing that there was a problem, a major problem, made a huge difference. I began talking to people.
But it is still not easy.
Now and again, bad days seem to last for an eternity, and the doom-and-gloom feelings surge back and a little voice in the back of my head says jump, but now it’s easier to ignore, defused. Like the constant hum of the refrigerator, it eventually becomes background noise. It is always there, persistent and annoying, but not crazy-making. I just don’t listen that acutely to it anymore.
I still have all the notes I wrote, hidden where no one will find them. I can’t quite bring myself to destroy them; they remind me that there have been worse times. Sometimes, I add to them. But they are not angry, and they’re not addressed to anyone but myself.
Now, instead of a pile of suicide notes, I have a collection of letters to myself. They help me stay brave. They are a roadmap of my emotional life, reminding me where I’ve been and where I am going. And today, that is ever farther away from the cliff.