If you're reading this, then you've probably already found me, so let me start by apoligizing for the shock. I don't know exactly why I've decided to write this, but it seems somewhat of a tradition among those in my current plight. So you're probably wondering why I decided to hang myself from a ceiling fan. I'll do my best to explain, but first, I think it's important that, as the reader, you can relate to my day to day routine.



Abruptly, every morning, I am jolted into consciousness by a cacophony of harsh, unbearbly loud beeps at precisely 6:15 AM. I roll out of bed and the first thoughts of suicide overwhelm me as I stumble into the bathroom for a shower. I love showers. Besides sleeping, showering is my favorite activity because it is the only time of the day when I can be completely isolated from everything. It's the only time of the day when I can shut off all the lights, all the distractions in my life and just let the water run over my body, caressing my head as it shoots powerfully, but elegantly out of the nozzle. I close my eyes and let the water run over my ears, muting the world around me, acting as a buffer that protects me from all the influences in my life that I perceive as negative. As I stand here in complete darkness, separated from the society that irks me, I feel this overwhelming sense of peace. After getting out of the shower, I dry off and put on my clothes, open the bathroom door, and gasp as the cool, conditioned air cuts through the humidity and surrounds me, enveloping me in a cloud of relief. I lackadaisically walk into the kitchen and eat breakfast, although I barely eat any due to my bipolar appetite. I grab my things and head out the door, looking for any excuse to stay home and avoid the pain that the rest of the day has in store for me. As I get into my car, I hope, more than anything else, that I will be killed in a horrible accident on the way to school. Unfortunately, I arrive at my destination safely, and am forced to continue on with the day's scheduled plan.



In short, I hate everything about school. Every forty-eight minutes, I'm forced to enter a hallway packed with smiling faces, teenagers whose biggest worry in life is whether or not Sammi and Ron are going to stay together on The Jersey Shore. To me, everyone looks the same; I'm engulfed by a sea of grey, boring people that I couldn't care less about. Ironically, this is the time of day when I feel the most alone, and not the tranquil, at peace alone, but instead, the lonely, "I'd like to kill myself," alone that fills me while I'm strolling through the halls and fail to find just one person that interests me. My favorite class is English, not because of the people, not because the teacher, but because of the books. Books are my life. To me, there is nothing better than reading a good book and losing track of time as the author uses their superlative control of the English language to hook you like a baited fish, dragging you into their fictional reality. I constantly read, whether it's David Foster Wallace, Ernest Hemmingway, Agusten Burroughs, or Kurt Vonnegut. Delving into my subconsious, an experienced psychologist would tell me that I create alternate realities with novels, using them to cope with my loneliness. I'd have to agree with him too; literature is my drug, my hallucinogen that keeps me sane in a world full of s***.



School is over, now, and I drive home within 5 minutes of our release, avoiding all socializing that I may have to endure with the very people I loathe. I haven't really eaten anything today, but, for some reason, it doesn't matter because the hunger's growling pain tears through my stomach, distracting me from this gaping hole that my depression creates above my belly button. It feels as if I'm full of liquid happiness and, as the day progresses, it slowly spills out of my wound, spiraling me deeper and deeper into a depressed state until my next dose of Zoloft. I get home and wallow in self-pity, blaming myself for my own misery and loneliness. I read for a few hours and watch a movie on Netflix, and then get into a screaming match with my parents who don't understand what it means to be depressed. I take another shower, usually for about forty-five minutes, and only come out because my dad is pounding on the door, complaining about his unusually high water bill he examined while watching football on his fifty-four inch plasma television. I say whatever, and my mom tells me that if I'm not going to say anything nice, that I shouldn't say anything at all, which I point out immediately is not a particularly nice thing to say, highlighting the contradiction that exists with her dumb expression. I march into my room under orders from my irate father, grab my book, which happens to be The Broom of the System by David Foster Wallace, a fantastic writer, and read for two and a half hours until I can't keep my eyes open anymore. I turn off the light and cry myself to sleep.



Now, to answer the question of why I strung myself up by the ceiling fan. I have manic depression. It bombards every thought that enters my mind, keeping me from ever feeling anything besides this deep, empty depravity in my gut. I have tried absolutely everything to evade this horrible emotion but it continues to harass me even while I'm writing this one, final letter. Death is knocking on my door, and I have to go with him now. It's nothing like I imagined it. I'm not afraid, but, on the contrary, i'm excited and curious to experience this inevitable fate that we must all endure. Although I am a devout atheist, if there exists such a thing, I can only hope that after this quick conclusion to my cruel life, there will be some sort of hereafter that awaits me. A sudden calm has just come over me and I would like to bid farewell to this pile of s*** that I've been living on for seventeen years.

So it goes...

Austin Finch