The recent shootings made me think of you.
I still think you are a coward. And I will never feel sorry for you.
As much as I hurt you, and you hurt me, it doesn't matter. None of it does. I don't care. I really, really don't.
It feels like I never did. But I know that I once did. You weren't human to me as much as you were a game to be won, which is a habit I picked up from someone else.
The morning you off'd yourself was the morning of my first prenatal appointment. The anniversary is the "apocalypse" this year.
I still don't understand the parallax of your world. How little you seemed to care for everything, especially yourself. I remember you told me you needed to find a new psychiatrist. Months went by, and you never did. All the while, the fog must have been creeping in, thicker and thicker. You said it so casually. As though it were an afterthought. You were well-aware of how you were doing. But you hid it from everyone. You hid so much from me, and even your closest friends, who would have done anything for you. You hid yourself from your family, who loved and cared about you. But you ignored it. For the sake of what? There was nothing. You gave up on everything for no good reason.
I still don't feel sorry for you.
No, I feel sorry for your family and friends. What you did, I'm sure, will always have a big impact on their life. In a very bad, traumatic way. Your mother lost her son. I can never imagine losing my son like that. It tears me up. They will always think about how they lost you, and how guilty they feel that they didn't see it coming, and how they wish there could have been something they could have done to stop you.
I don't know what the point of this is, since you'll never know of its existence. You don't exist anymore. And it's not okay. You aren't supposed to be dead right now.
And I cannot feel bad for you. You just needed help, and you refused it.
I wish everyone who has died by their own hand knew just how awful it is for everyone else. |
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