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the cut. Never having used these before, I didn’t realize how sharp they are. I pull the washcloth away from my skin, and the bleeding has already stopped. It’s a minor cut, not even visible unless up very close to it. Deciding to forgo doing my eyebrows after all, I pick up the shaper to throw it away when that voice in my head sneaks in.
     
    It’s sharp.
    It’s sharp enough to cut deep.
    It can go deep enough to end your pain.
    There would be no more anxiety.
    Everyone would be better off without you.
    Set yourself free.
    Set them free.
    Bleed it all away.
     
    I’ve fought this voice for so long. I look at the blade and then back in the mirror. My chin begins to quiver and my eyes fill with glassy tears. My chest moves up and down erratically, and suddenly my body yields to the sadness carried on my breath. A grand sense of defeat washes over me, finally agreeing with the voice in my head. My shoulders drop an inch, and the heaviness on my heart eases.
     
    It’s time to let go.
    It’s time to give in.
     
    The tears fall from my eyes and splash into the sink below. I watch them trickle down to the drain and disappear. I want to go with them. I want to disappear too. It’s time for me to recognize that this sickness is so deeply braided into me that it would be impossible to ever separate it from who I once was. Dying doesn’t even scare me anymore. I’ve been slowly dying for sometime now, so the actual idea of death seems like a certainty more than a choice.
    Depression. It’s this thing that has brought me to this awful yet obvious point of clarity. Isn’t it odd that this word is what’s used to describe futile things like the aftermath of a boy breaking a girl’s heart, how one might feel on rainy days or when things in life aren’t going your way, and then this same word is used to describe how someone feels at the point of suicide, the point of not wanting to live another day? I shake my head at the cataclysmic differences between these things. It’s strange how a word can be used so lightly. It’s scary how much power that same word can hold.
     

     
    Writing a letter seems cruel. Not leaving a letter seems cruel. Neither option feels right. Nothing about planning my own death should feel good . In fact, it should feel so wrong that I'd decide not to go through with it. Sadly, nothing feels more right to me anymore. The thought of letting go, which is how I see it, makes me feel weightless. Thinking I'll never go to bed another night weighed down by such immense dread about the upcoming day feels freeing. Not waking up with invisible hands wrapped around my neck sounds relieving. Silencing the endless war in my head is so appealing it makes me long for the choice more and more each and every day. My life and the people in it are a non-stop chattering fog I try to navigate daily.
    I look around and I see them, I hear them, but I feel detached from it all. It's as if I'm in the center of a spinning room, floating, with no way to stop it. Only they don't see or feel the spinning. I’m suffocating. They’re breathing. I want to be them. I envy them. How much I wish I were them consumes me. Their smiles and laughter dangle in front of me like savory pieces of food. I'm like a hungry beggar. If I had a tin cup I'd hold it out and jangle its loose coins begging them for a scrap of their happiness. But just like beggars aren’t really seen, my sickness is invisible to others. They choose not to see it, to see me . Because to see me is to see my sickness. It’s who I've become. Slowly but surely it has transformed me from the inside out. It has crept into my flesh and made a home inside my bones. There's no escaping it. I can't evade something that now owns me. All I want is to surrender to it.
    I open the spiral notebook that sits on the nightstand and click the pen. I’ll write the letter, painful as it may be. Nothing’s worse than continuing the cycle of ups and downs I put myself and family