I have been writing in a journal on an almost-daily basis since I was 17 years old. This is a record of me going through each entry from the beginning, and commenting on the me from fifteen years ago.

Why suicide?

Life’s pain make syou grow weary, and the rejuvinating happiness passes to quickly.

Death is the big, final rest we all wait for.

Some know what they want better than others.

Hmm, I had thought that the last entry was my only suicide entry. Actually, I’d hoped it was. I don’t like revisiting this time. I can’t even remember what was so bad about my life that I wanted to end it, but I recall the feeling that it was the only way.

Not long after this, a friend of mine would kill himself. Well, it was never officially called a suicide, but the circumstances of his death definitely pointed in that direction. To this day, I wonder if we would still be friends, and what he’d be doing with his life. That’s the worst part when someone you know dies suddenly and inexplicably. It leaves you with all these unanswerable questions.