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Suicide is not cowardly
A boy in my class the other day said that suicide was a cowardly act because the people who choose to kill themselves are too much of cowards to face their problems. I disagreed with him on the highest level, but being me; I couldn’t raise my hand and tell him. I couldn’t voice my opinion. Suicide isn’t cowardly; it’s selfish, yes, but not cowardly. Nobody can possibly understand what it is exactly that pushes someone to kill herself unless they’ve experienced it. Every single night she cries herself to sleep because her mother drinks herself to oblivion; her father does coke until his nose bleeds; her classmates don’t pay attention, and if they do, it’s only negative. She just wanted to read a book; she wasn’t bothering anybody; she wasn’t making noise. Why couldn’t they just leave her alone? They had to grab the book, read it out loud, make her lose her place, lose her patience, lose her innocence. They laughed at her; they hurt her both physically and emotionally, totally unaware of the little broken girl hidden inside. They didn’t care; nobody did. It came to the point where she stopped crying at night. Crying was proof that she was alive, but then it went away. Everything went away. All the pain, all the misery, all the hurt, but the love went away too. The smiles, the laughter, everything; it’s all gone. She stopped feeling. And that is the point where the cutting begins because the pain is better than nothing. The pain tells her that she hasn’t been taken by Satan. It’s when she gets so used to the cutting, so used to the jagged red lines on her arm, so used to the pain, that she commits suicide. She just wanted somebody, anybody, to care, but nobody did.
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