I'm Not Angry I Wanted to Die — I'm Angry No One Told Me That Wasn't Failure
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⚠️ CONTENT WARNING & INTENT CLARIFICATION
This article discusses suicide, trauma, and survival — but its core purpose is prevention.
It is not a glorification or romanticization of harm.
It is a lifeline disguised as dialogue.
It exists so others feel less alone, less broken, and more seen.
This is what it looks like to survive out loud.
📁 Filed under: Letters to My Past Self, Survival Science, Things Nobody Told Us
🧠 Status: Furious, factual, devastating, determined
🕒 3 days before the show airs — because anger couldn't wait, and I realized the reality show is not the fucking point.
💔 Dedication: To the versions of us who didn't make it, and the ones still holding on at 2 AM
It's Tuesday, 2 AM in Peace™ and he walks in.
29-year-old me.
Fresh out of a four-year relationship. Just moving alone into that shitty Taipei studio. Almost a year sober from alcohol. Drowning in silence.
The one who overdosed two weeks later - not by choice, but by being vulnerable and exploited.
The one who begged to disappear afterward.
But tonight, he’s not alone.
Behind him, the room fills — these are the faces I found waiting.
- The teenager who closed their laptop after deleting a message no one would ever read.
- The student staring into their reflection, whispering they’ll never be enough.
- The twenty-something burning out quietly, wondering when life stopped feeling like living.
- The young adult with a packed calendar and no space left to breathe.
- The one working three jobs and still feeling like a failure.
- The one with no family, just a pile of bills and nobody to call.
- The one who cancels plans but secretly hopes someone will notice.
- The parent who sets the table smiling, so their kids won’t see their shaking hands.
- The person with a full bank account, a successful career, and an empty room.
- The one surrounded by people, laughing — but feeling like a ghost.
- The elder who felt the world had already forgotten them.
The air is crowded with them.
Their absence feels heavy.
29-YO ME:
Are you going to tell me it gets better?
ME:
No. I'm going to tell you why it was never supposed to be this hard.
THE INDICTMENT
ME:
I'm angry. Not just for you. For them. For me. For all of us.
And I’m even angrier that we were never given the one tool that actually saves — each other, spoken to.
I'm angry that from the time we were kids we were told to be strong, not to cry, not to need.
That vulnerability had to be loud to be real — as if you had to bleed publicly just to deserve help.
That suicidal thoughts made you "attention-seeking" or "a burden," instead of, you know, a person in pain.
I'm angry that so many of us isolated because we didn't want to be too much for the people we loved — because everyone else was already exhausted.
I'm angry we assumed silence was noble, when it was just a slow kind of disappearing.
There’s silence that holds. The kind that sits across from you and says: I’m still here.
But this wasn’t that. This was silence that erases. The kind that makes you question whether you ever mattered at all.
And I'm angry that some of us weren't just dealing with internal weather.
Some were being bullied daily with no escape.
Some were living with violence at home.
Some were facing discrimination that made existing feel impossible.
I'm angry that we live in systems that teach dominance instead of empathy.
That in some schools, safety is a right, while in others, survival is extra credit.
That some places protect the vulnerable while others sacrifice them.
That we act surprised when people want to die in conditions designed to crush them.
One person dies by suicide every 40 seconds globally.
Every statistic is a ghost standing in this room.
Some died from internal storms.
Some died from external violence.
Some simply died because they were truly alone.
I can hear the echo of my studio from that November overdose.
The room smelled of nothing in particular — I could only hear the intermittent motorcycles on the street below.
My dad, ten thousand kilometers away, probably thought I was fine.
I'm angry that the only tools we were given were: heal, fix, improve, transcend.
✨ (Translation: "Please become less inconvenient and more marketable.")
I’m angry that we were told to become “better versions” of ourselves when the version we were was already gasping for air.
Like, sir, the audacity of telling someone drowning to “level up.”
And I'm especially angry that silence was sold to us as strength — when really, we just didn’t believe anyone would care enough to ask.
I'm angry that “Don't be so sensitive” was the anthem we gave the hurting.
Especially the ones with no safety net.
People left alone, translating pain into dialects no one else could speak —
until silence became their only fluency.
And I’m exhausted that openness is treated like a performance.
As if people only believe you if you sob on camera with good lighting.
But not everyone can scream.
Sometimes vulnerability is silent. Sometimes it hides.
Which means it's on us to reach out — not because we’re unbroken, but because we know what breaking feels like.
Because when one person dares to speak, it creates space for others to speak too.
That's not just poetry. That's biology.
🧠 Neuroscience time: Mirror neurons. Co-regulation. Emotional contagion.
We are wired for resonance.
One brave voice makes another feel safe.
That's how we break shame's spell — together.
ME:
You weren't broken. You were human.
Nobody told you that.
And we died for it.
THE DEBATE
(Suddenly, he arrives. THAT WRITER™. Glossy smile. Perfect morning routine. Voice dripping with certainty. A podcast in human form. Holding yet another book with pastel fonts promising to fix your life in 10 steps — and I can smell the toxic positivity from here.)
THAT WRITER™:
Pierre, I can see you're in pain, but at some point you have to take responsibility for it instead of staying stuck in victim mode.
ME:
"Victim mode"? Bestie, I made art out of agony and connection out of collapse.
If that’s victim mode, maybe you’ve just never met someone who didn't need healing to be profitable.
THAT WRITER™:
You're still holding onto your trauma because it gives you identity. Sometimes we unconsciously stay attached to our pain because it makes us feel special.
ME:
You think 800,000 annual suicide deaths are people trying to feel special?
That's the most expensive attention-seeking method in human history, don’t you think?
THAT WRITER™:
You survived. Now it’s time to heal and let go of the past versions of yourself that keep you small.
ME:
Let go of my past selves?
The 17-year-old who wanted to disappear taught me desperation.
The 29-year-old who overdosed taught me limits.
You want me to evict my teachers?
THAT WRITER™:
But don’t you want to grow? To become your highest self?
ME:
"Grow" implies I was smaller. "Highest" implies ranking.
I don’t want growth — I want spaciousness.
(He squints like I just declined enlightenment.)
THAT WRITER™:
You can feel people’s energy shift when they truly heal. Their vibration changes completely.
ME:
You just invalidated a century of psych research with vibes.
What does my suicidal ideation feel like from over there? Asking for science.
THAT WRITER™:
You're getting defensive, which proves my point. Healed people respond with love and peace.
ME:
Healed people don’t get angry? That’s not healing — that’s lobotomy.
My anger isn’t dysfunction. It’s information. It’s telling me you’re dangerous.
THAT WRITER™:
I’ve helped thousands find peace through positive thinking and gratitude.
ME:
Your “positive thinking” is emotional suppression with a vision board.
You're not a healer. You're a silencer.
THAT WRITER™:
Surely you believe in taking responsibility for your thoughts?
ME:
I’ll take responsibility for my nervous system —
but not the world that taught it to be terrified.
I didn’t choose PTSD. I chose what to build with it.
THAT WRITER™:
This is triggering for you—
ME:
You just dismissed my argument as a trauma response.
That’s not healing — that’s suppression with a better filter.
THAT WRITER™:
But anyone can heal from anything with the right mindset.
ME:
There it is.
Tell that to the teenager getting bullied every day at school.
Tell that to someone living under systemic violence.
Your mindset isn’t medicine — it’s malpractice.
(THAT WRITER™ starts to flicker — their certainty cracking under the weight of reality.)
ME:
You want to help people?
Stop teaching them to fix themselves.
Start believing they were never broken.
Stop selling healing to people who need holding.
THAT WRITER™:
Maybe you weren’t doing the practices correctly—
ME:
When your methods fail, you blame the user.
You know what worked?
Someone sitting next to me saying, “Tell me about the thoughts that scare you.”
Not “think positive.”
Not “practice gratitude.”
Just: “Let’s talk about it.”
THAT WRITER™:
But we can’t encourage people to dwell in negative thoughts.
ME:
You think talking about suicide encourages it?
Journal of Affective Disorders: open conversations reduce attempts by 60%.
Your silence is what’s dangerous.
THAT WRITER™:
We should focus on solutions, not problems.
ME:
The problem is that people think they’re problems.
I don’t need solutions.
I need someone who won’t flinch when I say I wanted to die.
I need to say “I’m struggling” without performing progress to be worthy of care.
THAT WRITER™:
But surely you believe in personal growth?
ME:
I believe in personal integration.
Growth implies I was wrong before.
Integration says: every version of me gets a seat at the table.
THAT WRITER™:
That sounds… complicated.
ME:
It is complicated.
You're selling simplicity to people who need space to hold emotional contradictions.
Fixes to people who need to be held.
And when your fixes don’t work, you blame the person, not the blueprint.
THAT WRITER™:
Yes, but—
ME:
Yes but shut up!
You want to help people?
Start by believing they were never broken.
(THAT WRITER™ dissolves. Not because he saw the truth. But because I’m the one writing the book. And I’m upset. And also I do what I want.)
THE CONVERSATION CONTINUES
29-YO ME:
So what now? You survived. Big deal. What does that even mean?
ME:
It means I didn’t leave.
Not because I’m stronger than you.
Because you held on long enough for me to arrive.
29-YO ME:
And what do you do with that? Just… keep going?
ME:
Yes.
Keep going.
Keep building.
Not to prove you wrong.
To prove you mattered.
Because without you, there is no me.
29-YO ME:
But I feel so empty. It hurts so much. I truly want to disappear.
ME:
I know. The emptiness feels endless.
And you're so close to letting go.
But you also write.
You also call friends.
You also drag yourself to the shower when everything feels pointless.
That isn't failure.
That's architecture.
You're building me a life raft out of scraps.
29-YO ME:
So what’s my legacy then?
ME:
Me.
And everything I make from here.
Every sentence. Every connection.
Every time I speak the words we were never given.
That's you, still alive through me.
29-YO ME looks at the ghosts.
The teenagers.
The mothers.
The men.
The lonely ones.
The ones who didn't make it.
His voice cracks.
29-YO ME:
We couldn't save them.
ME:
No.
But maybe we can stop lying about what survival really looks like.
Maybe that’s the only thing we can offer:
The truth.
No fixes.
No transcendence.
Just proof that living with all of it is possible.
29-YO ME:
And you’ll keep going?
ME:
Yes.
For you.
For me.
For them.
Not because I’m a hero.
Because I owe it to the boy who begged to disappear and still managed to write one more line.
He nods.
The room is still heavy, but not empty.
The ghosts are still here.
29-year-old me is still here.
The teenagers, the mothers, the fathers, the lonely ones, the ones who were bullied, the ones who were trapped.
They’re all listening.
And what I want them to know — what I wish I'd known — is this:
We're not broken. We're human.
We don't need to be fixed. We need to be held.
We don't require healing. We require integration.
Our thoughts don't make us dangerous. Silence does.
The 29-year-old drowning, the 17-year-old cutting, the 45-year-old planning an exit — none of them are the only one.
None of them are defective.
None of them are too much.
All of them are human.
And being human isn’t a problem to solve.
It’s an experience to have.
All of it. Simultaneously. Without apology.
🌀 FILE CLOSED: ANGER TURNED INTO ARCHITECTURE
🧠 Status: Still here. Still human. Still gay. Still angry. Still building. Still glorious.
📍 Location: Peace™
🛂 Population: Everyone who made it this far
🎯 Mission: Make sure nobody else has to figure this out alone