I could talk about the sideways glances, the silent way that people disapprove. I could analyze the conversations, the glazed look that appears at any serious answer to, “how are you?” I could scream about the platitudes, or the condescending instructions to find society’s imaginary friend. I could talk about all of these things, but what I really want to say is this:
When my son died, it tore a hole inside of me. It reframed all of my thoughts about death. I used to think suicide was cowardly, escapist. I now realize there is so much more inside this conversation.
I am a new person, developing of a husk. For a long time I was no one at all. I once considered jumping off a seventh floor balcony. The fact that I didn’t was entirely my choice, and that’s what it needed to be. I chose to live. I choose to live, now, and no one else can do that for me.