A letter to death

To Those Who, Like Me, Have Struggled With Suicide: You Are Not Alone.

A note from the author.

The following is a transcript, A real autobiographical moment in which i did wrote that letter. In real life i burned it and let the ashes flow. Some of the names on the story are protected. But what your about to read are fragments of my life where i have actually encounter death, and had felt it. This is a begginers attempt to portrait what death and suicide felt like. To raise awareness not pitty. And to beging the emphaty discussion of what grieving your own life and childhood actually entails. If you ever felt like i describe below. Yes, i know your desperation. I See you. I validate you. Not all can, because this is disease is a stranger to most of all. But if somehow you feel related to what youre about to read. From stranger to stranger, i validate you. Is real and it does get better. Slowly and you have to ask for help which i hated, but better. If you need help you can reach me. And we no longer will be strangers after all.

A letter to death.

I sat alone in the stillness of the night, replaying the final moments of my support group in my mind. We all stood there, silent and unsure—vulnerable in a room full of strangers. But despite our differences, we shared one thing in common: a familiar stranger—death.

“Well, that’s it for today,” Linda, our group leader, said as the session came to a close. “Thank you all for sharing. I hope to see you next week. And don’t forget—this week’s task is to write a letter to death.”

The week passed uneventfully. Everyone seemed to avoid the assignment—or maybe they were just avoiding me. Death isn’t a casual topic of conversation. Most people prefer to ignore it, push it aside, hoping it will stay hidden, out of sight and mind. But for me it was a recurrent topic in my life. Not close enough to be friends but a familiar face after all.

I procrastinated as long as I could, dreading the thought of confronting it. But avoiding things wasn’t helping anymore, and I knew that. So, late one night, I made myself a cup of coffee and grabbed a piece of homemade brownie. Baking was something I’d taken up recently—a way to keep my hands busy and my mind distracted. It had brought me joy. Something that ive havent felt for quite long.

The house was quiet. Everyone else had gone to bed. Earlier, my mom had asked me, “How was your day, sweetie?”

“It was fine, Mom. Linda said we’re improving,” I replied. I caught a glimpse of hope flicker in her eyes, and guilt quickly settled in. Watching your child struggle while feeling powerless must be hard.

She smiled softly and went back to her TV drama, leaving me alone with my thoughts—the ones I had been avoiding.

Now, in the middle of the night, all alone with my thoughts and time, there was no avoiding it.

“A letter to death,” I muttered to myself.

How do I even begin?

I opened my laptop word was there with a blank page and i stood there. After half and hour or writers block. Nothing. All blank.

How it is possible if death is the one topic im familiar of most of all. The one topic i had actuall insight of and point of view. Felt like a chiken all scared of siting and confront the own consequences of my feelings. This must be the reason why, my soul was acking. All this time avoiding real feelings, the real me. Well, i said to myself. This woman is a coward no more. Time to get to work.

With shaky hands, began typing. At first, the words came hesitantly. But once they started flowing, they didn’t stop.

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Date: 0ct 12 2024

Time: 00:00

To: Unknown

Subject: Unknown

Dear Death,

I feel your presence.

I know how cold it gets in the dark, how time stretches and slows. I’ve felt it before—more than once.

You visited me in my childhood, slipping into my dreams like a shadow. People would come and go, telling me stories as if they needed to be heard before they could move on. I saw them as spirits, but I always knew—you were there too. The familiar stranger I had not yet met.

I wouldn’t call us friends, though. I’ve wanted to get close, to ask you my questions, but you’re elusive. You come when you’re least expected, but never when called.

If someone asked me what you’re like, I’d say:

At first, you’re distant, like a shadow at the edge of perception. People say you come by accident, but I don’t believe that. You’re careful, methodical, deliberate. I respect that about you—the way you work in silence, deciding fates with a somber kind of control.

Others fear you, think you’re cruel. But I’ve always sensed something gentler in you. It’s as if you don’t enjoy your work, but you know it has to be done. No one else will dirty their hands with it.

I’ve heard so many stories about you—in obituaries, whispered prayers at funerals, during Mass. You’re always there, lurking just beyond the veil while people try to make sense of their grief. I remember a funeral once, where a woman was sobbing uncontrollably, screaming, “Why now? Why him? You should’ve taken me instead.”

I wanted to comfort her, but my mom said, “It’s okay, sweetie. People grieve in their own ways. Sometimes, they need to go through it to find peace.”

That stayed with me.

I remember the first time I truly saw you—when you took my Pops, and then my Nona. They had been so full of life, but once they were close to you, they became strangers. Familiar strangers, yes, but strangers nonetheless.

I’ve seen the traces you leave behind. When people encounter you, they’re changed forever—sometimes filled with anger, sometimes crushed by sadness, and sometimes numb, unable to feel anything at all.

If someone asked me what you feel like, I’d say—you’re heavy. Like a weight on my chest, an invisible burden pressing down. An invisible weight that makes everything hard. Like if i was carring sacks of coal in my back, but no one else could feel it or see it.

Sometimes, you cloud the mind with fog, making everything feel distant, disconnected. Like everything arround you is a movie writed by someone else. And youre just an extra in your own life. “You dont remember when it happened?”

Usual question that i am asked. To what my answer is - “ No sorry, i dont at all.” Like a stranger is jumping in your body from time to time. And you have no control over your own life.

Other times, you come in waves of desperation. I’ve heard people cry out for you, pleading for release, their souls aching for an end. That kind of scream that comes from the soul, thats is looking to release suffering and acking. I myself had made them one night, in one call. That final call. I screamed while blurry voices on the other end. it was like my body contained it for too long and could hold it no more. Those cries—they stay with me.

They’re etched into my memory.

And then there’s the version of you I hate the most—the one I saw in the mirror. When I didn’t recognize the woman staring back at me. Eyes hollow, joyless, unfamiliar. It was like bartering with a stranger for a life I no longer knew.

The life that was slipping away. That unfamiliar stranger across the way.

The last time I called for you, I thought it was the end. I was ready. I tried to take my final breath, and you felt like a friend then. You were close, ready to take my pain and give me peace.

But when I closed my eyes, it wasn’t peace I found. It was pieces—fragments of my life, scattered like broken glass. Some memories I had forgotten, some were different than I remembered. And some were warm, like hugs that linger. I was angry with you then. I wanted you to take me. Why didn’t you?

That night, you were so close—just one breath away. But again, you slipped away, leaving me behind to face the grief that’s worse than death—the grief of living while wanting to be dead. The grief my family felt when I was in that dark place.

If someone asks me about you now, I’ll tell them this: For sure, you have a cruel sense of irony.

Because deep down, I know that when I’m finally okay —when I’m full of life, with everything to live for—that’s when you’ll decide we won’t be strangers anymore.

______________________

I closed the laptop and sat there, the night so quiet it felt like the world was holding its breath. I had sent my letter to the void, to an unknown receiver.

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Traducido al español :

Esta historia contiene temas de salud mental, duelo, muerte y suicidio.

A quienes, como yo, han luchado contra el suicidio: No están solos

Me senté sola en la quietud de la noche, repasando en mi mente los últimos momentos de mi grupo de apoyo. Todos estábamos allí, en silencio e inseguros—vulnerables en una sala llena de extraños. Pero a pesar de nuestras diferencias, compartíamos una cosa en común: un extraño familiar—la muerte.

“Bueno, eso es todo por hoy,” dijo Linda, nuestra líder de grupo, al cerrar la sesión. “Gracias a todos por compartir. Espero verlos la próxima semana. Y no lo olviden: la tarea de esta semana es escribir una carta a la muerte.”

La semana transcurrió sin incidentes. Todos parecían evitar la tarea—o tal vez solo me evitaban a mí. La muerte no es precisamente un tema de conversación casual. La mayoría de la gente prefiere ignorarla, apartarla, esperando que permanezca oculta, fuera de vista y de la mente.

Procrastiné todo lo que pude, temiendo enfrentarla. Pero evitar las cosas ya no me estaba ayudando, y lo sabía. Así que, una noche tarde, me preparé una taza de café y tomé un pedazo de brownie casero. Hornear era algo que había empezado a hacer recientemente—una manera de mantener mis manos ocupadas y mi mente distraída.

La casa estaba en silencio. Todos los demás ya se habían ido a dormir. Más temprano, mi mamá me había preguntado: “¿Cómo estuvo tu día, cariño?”

“Estuvo bien, mamá. Linda dijo que estamos mejorando,” le respondí. Vi un atisbo de esperanza en sus ojos, y la culpa rápidamente se instaló en mí. Ver a tu hijo luchar mientras te sientes impotente debe ser difícil.

Ella sonrió suavemente y volvió a su telenovela, dejándome sola con mis pensamientos—esos que había estado evitando. Ahora no había forma de evitarlos.

Era el momento.

“Una carta a la muerte,” murmuré para mí misma. ¿Cómo empiezo siquiera?

Abrí mi computadora portátil y, con manos temblorosas, comencé a escribir. Al principio, las palabras salían con vacilación. Pero una vez que empezaron a fluir, no se detuvieron.

________________________________________________

Fecha: 12 de octubre de 2024

Hora: 00:00

Para: Desconocido

Asunto: Desconocido

Querida Muerte,

Siento tu presencia.

Sé lo frío que se vuelve en la oscuridad, cómo el tiempo se estira y se ralentiza. Lo he sentido antes—más de una vez.

Me visitaste en mi infancia, deslizándote en mis sueños como una sombra. La gente venía y se iba, contándome historias como si necesitaran ser escuchadas antes de poder seguir adelante. Los veía como espíritus, pero siempre supe que tú también estabas allí. Ese extraño familiar al que aún no había conocido.

No diría que somos amigas, sin embargo. Quise acercarme, hacerte mis preguntas, pero eres escurridiza. Vienes cuando menos te esperan, pero nunca cuando te llaman.

Si alguien me preguntara cómo eres, esto es lo que diría:

Al principio, eres distante, como una sombra al borde de la percepción. La gente dice que llegas por accidente, pero no lo creo. Eres cuidadosa, metódica, deliberada. Respeto eso de ti—la manera en que trabajas en silencio, decidiendo destinos con un tipo de control solemne.

Otros te temen, piensan que eres cruel. Pero yo siempre he percibido algo más suave en ti. Es como si no disfrutaras tu trabajo, pero supieras que debe hacerse. Nadie más se ensuciará las manos con él.

He escuchado tantas historias sobre ti—en obituarios, en oraciones susurradas en funerales, durante las misas. Siempre estás allí, acechando más allá del velo mientras la gente intenta darle sentido a su dolor. Recuerdo un funeral una vez, donde una mujer lloraba incontrolablemente, gritando: “¿Por qué ahora? ¿Por qué él? Deberías haberme llevado a mí.”

Quise consolarla, pero mi mamá dijo: “Está bien, cariño. La gente llora de diferentes maneras. A veces, necesitan pasar por esto para encontrar paz.”

Eso se quedó conmigo.

Recuerdo la primera vez que te vi de verdad—cuando te llevaste a mi abuelo y luego a mi abuela. Estaban tan llenos de vida, pero una vez que estuvieron cerca de ti, se convirtieron en extraños. Extraños familiares, sí, pero extraños al fin y al cabo.

He visto las huellas que dejas. Cuando las personas te encuentran, cambian para siempre—a veces llenas de ira, a veces aplastadas por la tristeza, y a veces insensibles, incapaces de sentir nada en absoluto.

Si alguien me preguntara cómo se siente tu presencia, diría que eres pesada. Como un peso en mi pecho, una carga invisible que me aplasta. A veces, nublas la mente con neblina, haciendo que todo se sienta distante, desconectado.

Otras veces, llegas en oleadas de desesperación. He escuchado a personas suplicarte, pidiendo ser liberadas, con el alma dolida buscando un final. Ese tipo de grito que surge del alma, buscando liberar el sufrimiento y el dolor. Yo misma lo hice una noche, en una llamada. Esa última llamada. Grité mientras las voces al otro lado del teléfono se escuchaban borrosas. Era como si mi cuerpo lo hubiera contenido durante tanto tiempo y ya no pudiera más. Esos gritos—se quedaron conmigo.

Están grabados en mi memoria.

Y luego está la versión de ti que más odio—la que vi en el espejo. Cuando no reconocía a la mujer que me miraba. Ojos vacíos, sin alegría, desconocidos. Era como negociar con una extraña por una vida que ya no conocía.

La vida que se me escapaba. Esa extraña familiar al otro lado.

La última vez que te llamé, pensé que era el final. Estaba lista. Intenté dar mi último respiro, y en ese momento parecías una amiga. Estabas cerca, lista para llevarte mi dolor y darme paz.

Pero cuando cerré los ojos, no fue paz lo que encontré. Eran piezas—fragmentos de mi vida, esparcidos como vidrio roto. Algunos recuerdos los había olvidado, algunos eran diferentes de lo que recordaba. Y algunos eran cálidos, como abrazos que perduran. Me enojé contigo entonces. Quería que me llevaras. ¿Por qué no lo hiciste?

Esa noche estabas tan cerca—solo a un respiro de distancia. Pero una vez más, te deslizaste, dejándome atrás para enfrentar el duelo que es peor que la muerte—el duelo de vivir queriendo estar muerta. El duelo que mi familia sintió cuando estuve en ese lugar oscuro.

Si alguien me pregunta sobre ti ahora, les diré esto: Sin duda, tienes un cruel sentido de la ironía.

Porque, en el fondo, sé que cuando finalmente esté bien—cuando esté llena de vida, con todo por lo que vivir—ese será el momento en que decidirás que ya no seremos extrañas.