The Letter I Kept

Chapter 1: Suicide to New Beginning

Every few years, I unfold the letter I wrote on September 2, 1996.

The paper has softened along the creases. The ink has faded from black to a tired shade of gray, and there are places where my handwriting becomes difficult to read. Still, I know every sentence.

I remember writing it.

I remember the room.

Most of all, I remember what happened two minutes later.

That afternoon, I sat alone in a house that felt strangely disconnected from the rest of the world. Somewhere outside, cars moved along the road. Neighbors opened and closed doors. People carried groceries inside, answered telephones, and complained about ordinary things.

Life continued everywhere except in that room.

I had convinced myself that I had reached the end of mine.

There had not been one dramatic disaster. No single event had destroyed everything. It was more like a long collection of disappointments, regrets, and private fears that had slowly become too heavy to carry.

For weeks, I had been waking up with a weight in my chest. I went through the motions of living, but I no longer felt connected to them. I spoke when someone asked me a question. I smiled when smiling was expected. I said, “I’m fine,” so often that the words became automatic.