Posted by Anonymous on 2015/01/28 under Uncategorized My father’s suicide is what is responsible for molding me into the person I am today, for both my best and my worst qualities. I was eight years old and full of hate and incomprehension. I was too young to understand suicide and why one commits it; I only understood my father was gone. Perhaps the greatest struggle of suicide is wrestling with the why. Why did my father take the easy way out? Why couldn’t he be stronger and fight? Why did he justify it better to abandon me than live? Psychiatrists say I am still eight years old, mentally, when dealing with my emotions. I don’t argue this. I give my heart and soul to people who do not return the same sentiments, and become attached to them too easily. I fixate on past actions and situations where they display their lack of feeling towards me. I cannot let anything go. I harbor sour, negative thoughts about myself. I revel in my depression. And although loving friends and family surround me, I feel utterly alone. My solidarity is both my sanctuary and my prison. I want to make the world a better place, yet I lack the motivation and confidence to do so. I want to be a happy and optimistic person, yet I allow my depression to wrap itself around me like a familiar lover. I want to never cause another person the same pain and hurt my father caused me, yet some nights I find myself alone in my kitchen holding a butcher knife to my wrists. My father’s suicide is responsible for molding me into the person I am today, for both my best and my worst qualities.