How to Dissappear

“Dead people receive more flowers than the living ones because regret is stronger than gratitude.”

-Unknown

Never take your own existence for granted. I mean, think about it. Being born is the luckiest thing to happen to every one of us—yet all of us have done it; this naturally creates an atmosphere of indifference and even dissatisfaction with life and can lead some to throw away the luck that has been given to them. Like me.

It wasn’t like anything bad happened that day. But by then, it didn’t matter if something happened; I had already been feeling dissatisfied with life for a long time by then, so when I realized I wanted to disappear, it wasn’t because I had a bad day or I tripped over a backpack and everyone was watching me. No, it wasn’t anything big,just little minor inconveniences. Things like a friend ignoring my texts for the whole day or my teacher looking at me more than usual in class with an inscrutable look on his face, but my last straw was my sweater. I was just walking home from school when I noticed a string on my sleeve. Assuming it was nothing, I tugged at it, then frowned. The flimsy, wool cord seemed dead-set on staying on my arm. Pushing aside what my mother always told me about loose threads, I made the fatal mistake of gritting my teeth and pulling on the stray strand with all the might my left arm gifted my endeavor.

Suddenly, it was double the length...and not any closer to coming off. I don’t know why, but that started the avalanche of thoughts that came plummeting down onto my already agitated mind. Thoughts of how weak I was, and how anyone else would have done the correct thing and listened to their mother in that situation, but not a failure like me, apparently. Looking back, I had already made up my mind about disappearing, I just needed an excuse—and, dangerously, it didn’t need to be rational. I’d love to blame my family for not noticing how far along I was, or my teacher, or that unresponsive friend, but that wouldn’t be fair. So I’m blaming my sweater for my death. After my little altercation with the loose thread and an unconscious decision to let my dangerous mindset lead me, I stuffed my hands in my pants pockets and picked up the pace in a hurry to get home before my parents did.

If they got home before me, I couldn’t die.

Rounding the corner, I immediately felt a little better when I didn’t see my parents’ cars in the driveway. I don’t know, maybe it felt like someone had made way for this, like an affirmation of what I had decided to do; it also empowered me. I already felt half-invisible because no one was watching or paying attention to me, and it made me feel like disappearing completely wouldn’t be a hard or such a bad thing to do. A wave of reassurance surged through me, and for the first time that day, I felt at peace. Like it was over, the stress could leave, and I could relax. It was almost over. Key word being “almost.” I still had a little more work ahead of me.

I stepped inside of the house and beelined to my room, making a quick pit stop to check the clock in the kitchen—3:15, right on time. I still had fifteen minutes. Snagging my last meal, I palmed the packet of gummies and smiled. This would do.

Closing and locking the door to my room and setting my backup down to slouch next to my bed, I closed the blinds and walked to my small closet, pushing the sliding door open once I got there. I opened the drawer closest to the floor on the right, taking out socks and various other undergarments before getting to my targets in a matter of seconds: my rope. Smiling, I pulled it out, holding it in my steady hands. All emotions were detached from me, waiting patiently somewhere outside of my body waiting for when I would chicken out like I did so many times before, but what kept me going this time was the peace rolling through me, the peace that was crashing gently against me in an assuring manner. Closing my fists on the rope, I locked myself into the promise death had whispered to me. Death promised consistency. It promised a single, silent agenda, and I was hooked on the idea. I didn’t want any more thoughts of how horrible of a person I was or how no one liked me and how everyone thought I was weird plaguing me anymore, and no one reached a hand out to me, except for the cold, bony hand that silence extended. Turning around, I grabbed the rolling office chair from my desk and stood on it shakily, but used all my balance to not fall as I tied the end of the rope to my ceiling fan. If I fell, I’d get injured, and then I wouldn't be able to die because I’d go to the hospital or my parents would be watching me closely. That’s when I realized death, just like life, is fragile. What a strange thought, no?

I had successfully disappeared by the time my parents found me.

It wasn’t selfish of me, I don’t think. And I don’t regret it. I stand by my decision. My death was because I needed out, and only because of that. It wasn’t for anyone else but me. Sure, some people were sad. Maybe some people blamed themselves for my death, and some who spiraled because of it. But in the end, that’s just how humans are. That’s how we cope. I can’t blame myself for what others think. In the end, my death was for me. No one else, no matter how many people want to make it about themselves.

P.S. I know, I know, there’s already so many stories, real and fictional, about people not wanting to live anymore and going through with it, then giving you a warning from death; what’s one more to you? And my answer is simple and short: nothing. I’m not going to sit here and lie to you and tell you that my story is special or has more to offer you than any other from the same trope just so I can't convince you not to kill yourself. Why would I waste my breath? If you’re still here, reading this, obviously you don’t need any more convincing.