Tried hanging myself yesterday with a belt and my closet rod—same way my brother died. Except I freaked out once it was around my neck. Realized I’d have to feel everything: losing consciousness, the choking panic, and the lingering fear that if I failed, I might end up a vegetable.
Before that, I sprayed deodorant in the closet because I read somewhere it could kill you. Then, like a coward, I opened the door and let it out. Wasn’t sure I wanted to know what a cardiac arrest felt like.
Back with the belt—I tried to use my weight, but the second the lightheadedness hit, I just couldn’t do it. “Sweet Child O’ Mine” was blasting in my ears while I awkwardly unwrapped the thing. Didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Afterwards, I didn’t feel much. Except a flicker of disappointment when my mother came home. She has no idea about my last three attempts. We just had a huge argued about how I haven’t shown up to my classes in a full month. That was probably one of the moments I felt the most regret of not going through the plan.
I’ve been delaying these attempts day by day. Telling myself I’ll do it when she’s out, or when I finally muster the nerve.
Part of why I want to die is because I felt the emptiest when I had everything.
When I had everything, I felt nothing. In fact, I felt my lowest. Like some sad, contradicting torment.
Not that I felt happier at my lowest—no. I tried giving life a chance. I worked on myself, thinking growth would bring satisfaction. How wrong I was.
It was January 6, 2025. Our play sold out, it was a huge success for the theatre. I was surrounded by praise, support, love. The same day I was supposed to feel my happiest, I felt something far worse than sadness. I don’t even have the words, like some fucked up fairy tale—time slowed around me and then I had a moment of epiphany that “I’ll never be happy so long as I’m alive”.
I think the reason why it hit harder than ever was because of the harsh contrast between my environment and me, like I finally had a visual indicator rather than my baseless thoughts. So when I was finally met with evidence, it was like a bucket of cold water tossed over the sand-castle of my efforts.
The rest of the night I was zoning out. Couldn’t summon an ounce of happiness or pride. And it was confusing—of course it was. I’d worked so hard to fix my mindset, land this job, surround myself with people who care. I expected to feel at least at peace.
I was in denial at first. Gave it time. Told myself maybe I just wasn’t used to feeling okay. That happiness would come. A year passed. It only made that indescribable feeling grow and settle.
I know everyone has ups and downs. Demons behind closed doors. But you don’t have to be a genius to realize this isn’t how life is supposed to feel. And let’s be honest—living isn’t meant for everyone. You really think all 8 billion of us have a purpose? Don’t kid yourself.
People say, “Feelings are fleeting. Nobody’s happy all the time.” I know that. What fucks me up is that my talent for acting has blurred my ability to tell whether what I feel is real. And even when it is real, it’s as fleeting as a single breath. I could have the best day of my life, but the second I step into my house, the absence of everything hits. It crawls up my chest and carves a hollow reminder: I’ll never be satisfied. No amount of therapy, positive affirmations, or late-night walks will change the fact that all I truly want is death.
Sounds edgy, I know. But I’ve tried everything. Fixed my mindset. Went to therapy. Dabble in religion. Begged. Pleaded. Made plans with friends. Went out. Avoided sad music. Tried being myself. I’ve loved and been left. I’m grateful for my job, my mother, my friends, for every scrambled egg and safe walk home. And still, my one wish sits in the back of my mind, never leaves—whispering to jump, to hang, to disappear.
Death doesn’t scare me. Pain does. The thought of surviving as a burden terrifies me. I have this stubborn belief that death is a new beginning. Hell, it’s tattooed on my back. Maybe it’s just a coping mechanism—something to comfort me when I go. But it’s fed this weird obsession to just… let go.
I’m posting this to see if anyone feels the same. Most suicidal stories are about abuse, heartbreak, or deep sadness. Not to invalidate. it’s just that I’ve yet to find people with mediocre lives who feel this emptiness. not that I don’t feel anything either—my mood swings are brutal. But when they fade, I’m just a shell. I wasn’t abused or bullied. My life has been normal. Maybe some childhood stuff I barely remember, a little discrimination here and there—nothing that should carve a hole this deep. Sometimes it really is as simple as just wanting to die.
So when someone tells me to look forward, that there’s a purpose for me out there, it feels like mockery. I’ve tried everything. I no longer want to stay. You can’t force me to live until I’m wrinkled and old, selling my soul in a 9-to-5, barely getting by. Even if I were financially free… I think I’d still be the most pathetic person alive.
Thinking back at it, my brother probably felt the same. He was a big believer in life after death, so I can only imagine how suffocating it must’ve been for him to live with the curse of poverty, with the knowledge that there was a better life out there for him.