I wondered what would happen after I died. I started to imagine what people’s lives would be like without me in it. Why continue living if I didn’t actually feel like I was alive? My life had become repetitive and, in many ways, unbearable.Īnd I questioned what the point in that was, exactly. I was in a toxic relationship and heavily depressed.
Daily routines like getting up, making the bed, and working the day away felt almost mechanical.
It felt like I had become separate from my own self, as though a part of me was just watching my body go through the motions. I was aware of my existence, but I wasn’t really experiencing it. I felt distant from the world and from myself my life felt almost as though it were on autopilot. And for the first time, I didn’t feel quite so alone.īut I still felt what I felt. There were so many other people feeling the exact same way. I’m not being stupid or melodramatic or attention-seeking. “I’m suicidal but I don’t want to die,” read another.Īnd then I realized: I’m not being silly. “I don’t want to die, I just don’t want to exist,” read one. To my surprise, I was met with search after search of the exact same question. I also wondered whether I was just being dramatic.īut I pressed enter anyway, desperate to find an answer for what I was feeling. I felt selfish as I typed it, thinking about all of the people who had been suicidal, worrying that I was being disrespectful to those who had actually lost their lives that way. But at the same time, I didn’t quite want to die. I didn’t want to be alive or exist anymore. I typed this into Google a year ago, my hands shaking as I questioned what I meant. I don’t want to be here anymore, but I’m too afraid to die.
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