I was going through my desk today, and I came across something I didn't know I had anymore. It was a letter, written on delicate kitten stationery in June of 2020 on the day I decided that I did not want to exist anymore.
I remember the day I wrote that letter so well.
There was no intention to write a suicide note when I sat at my desk that day. I had intended to write a letter to my grandmother or to a friend, but as I sat and stared at the paper everything suddenly felt so pointless. I had been fighting for so long, and I was so tired. I poured out my heart for two pages, sealed the letter, put it in my desk and called a therapist. The letter was my insurance. If I could not get better, I would simply put it on my bed and disappear.
But I didn't disappear. I healed. I lived.
And today I read the letter that I had intended to be my last.
"Hi...
Do you ever get absorbed by the idea that everyone you love would be happier of you slipped out of their lives? Lately that's all I can think about. There always seems to be too much of me. I'm too loud. I'm selfish. I'm bad-hearted and I take up too much space. People want to push me away. I want too much. I am too much..."
My heart is broken for the person that I was on that day. I was convinced that I was too broken and flawed to be loved, and that I was never going to be whole because I would never be as perfect as God wanted me to be, if he even existed. I did not believe that the church was true, and I was still afraid that this was going to condemn me to hell. I believed that my lack of faith was a fundamental flaw in the way I was created.
I was too much and not enough. Too queer, too full of doubt, not strong enough to believe in God without failing.
"I don't want people to miss me. I'm not worth missing.
I'm not who people think I am... there is ugliness in me."
Therapy was so hard.
My therapist had me write down three things I was capable of every day. She made me examine the strengths I did not believe that I had. She had me tear myself open and put myself back together in the way I was meant to be built. She helped me realize that my relationship with the church was abusive. She showed me that the box I was living in had a door, and that there was space for me to be bigger outside of it as soon as I was ready to take that step.
"You will find other people to love. People who genuinely sparkle. people who will be everything you need them to be. I'm not her. I can't be her. I've exhausted myself trying.
I have nothing left to offer."
My body fell into healing painfully as I threw myself at the walls of the prison I had not realized that I was in. I was not ready to open the door, and I knew that I no longer fit inside, but this box was everything I knew. It was family, it was home, it was culture and future and promises I had made for rewards I didn't even want. Sometimes the safety net is also the noose. Finally, it was time: I took a deep breath and stepped outside.
One by one I let go of the things I was afraid of losing, and found that not everything was lost. I still had home and family, and I found new found family to fill in open spaces that were suddenly available for me to explore. I left the church, and found a peace that I had never felt once in my 30 years of Mormonism. I discovered that I still had a future, and that it could be anything I wanted it to be. It was like breathing for the first time. It was joy.
My healing journey is not over. I still have so much still to unravel and it's never going to be an easy process, but when I look back at the person who wrote that letter in June of 2020 I see someone who still ended their letter with "I love you" in spite of the fact that they did not believe they were worthy of that same love. I see someone who was capable of more growth than they ever thought was possible, and someone who used that seed of love in their heart to plant a life they never imagined they would have. They fought and they won, and I am so proud of them. I am proud of me.
I was afraid that when I read that letter today that it would make me spiral, and that I would lose myself to the person I used to be. Instead, however, it helped me realize that we are never without hope. The sun is still shining somewhere, and morning will always come - we just need to reach out for a hand in the darkness.
The number for the United States Suicide & Crisis Hotline is 988 - please reach out if you are experiencing thoughts of suicide or self-harm. You are not alone.
