Better Off… Alive

The other day I was cleaning out my dresser and found a folded piece of paper I hadn’t seen in years. My suicide note.

I sat on the floor and read the words I wrote back then. “You’ll be better off without me.” I could still remember the night I wrote it — the bottle of pills on the bed, the heaviness in my chest, the absolute certainty that my absence would make life easier for everyone I loved.

But here’s what I also remembered: the phone call. The shaky hands dialing. The way my voice cracked when someone I trusted actually answered. No pep talk. No lecture. Just their voice on the other end, steady enough to keep me from swallowing those pills. That call saved my life.

Back then, I didn’t believe anyone needed me. Now? I have people who call me when their own nights get too dark. Friends, family, peers who lean on me the same way I once leaned on someone else. I know now that the thought — “they’ll be better off without me” — feels true in that moment, but it’s a lie depression tells.

Finding that note didn’t break me. It reminded me how far I’ve come. I’m still here. I’m loved. And I get to be the proof for others that the feeling passes, and that staying is worth it.