30 attempts, 30 takebacks

If I had to be honest, I think I would be really good at taking my own life if I meant it. I'm very scientific, good at research, quite thoughtful about the plans I make. I'm good at executing things, making them turn out the way I mean to, whether we're talking interviews at a firm with a 0.5% acceptance rate or impressing a billionaire enough for him to offer me career advice for a second time in-person.

I'm still alive by choice. It's not because I'm scared of death. I know there's no way of knowing what happens beyond life, but I take comfort in the idea that there's nothing, that it's a black void, an absence of feeling. I'm not looking for an afterlife, but rather relief from pain that everyone keeps telling me is temporary but that keeps coming back.

What really holds me back is love. Compassion is unequivocally my biggest value, and I have family and friends who I feel an indescribable degree of love and compassion towards. I mean wanting to be there for them now, and most importantly, not wanting to be a source of pain, a burden in the back of their minds, which I know could happen if I passed away by choice.

I've tried to take my life maybe 30 times now, buying ropes, tying belts around my neck, standing at the edge of buildings, waiting for the fastest subway to arrive at the station, bracing to jump in front of an ambulance, sitting in my dark bedroom with a handful of pills and a bottle of vodka, ordering a screwdriver to open and stand in front of my 12th floor window. Not once did I follow through, even though the voice in my head to "just do it" is so annoyingly loud. So far, every time, my love for my mom, my dad, my brother, my grandparents, my boyfriend, and my friends has been louder.

I have a hard time saying the words, "I don't want to die." The truth is, I do want to die. But my desire to be there for some people, to not traumatize them (not my desire to live) outweighs my pain.