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 with people who didn't make it.
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 at you. Not just for you.
I'm angry that nobody told us the truth.
That from the time we could understand words, we were taught that needing help meant we were weak. That crying meant we were too sensitive. That vulnerability had to be loud enough to be believed—like you had to bleed in public just to prove you were wounded.
They called suicidal thoughts "attention-seeking." As if wanting to die was a performance instead of just... reality.
So we learned to be quiet about it. We thought we were being noble, not wanting to burden anyone. Everyone else was already exhausted, right? We could handle it alone.
But that silence wasn't strength. It was just a slow disappearing.
And I'm angry that some of us weren't even dealing with just our own heads. Some of us were getting destroyed daily with nowhere to run. At school. At home. By systems that teach dominance instead of care.
We act surprised when people want to die in conditions designed to crush them.
One person dies by suicide every 40 seconds.
Every 40 seconds, someone decides they can't do another 3 AM.
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.
And what were we given to work with? "Heal yourself." "Fix yourself." "Become a better version." "Level up."
Translation: "Please become less inconvenient."
Like, the audacity of telling someone drowning to optimize their stroke technique.
We were told silence was strength. But really? We just didn't believe anyone would care enough to listen.
"Don't be so sensitive" became the anthem for a generation learning to die quietly.
And here's what makes me want to scream: vulnerability became something you had to perform correctly. Sob on camera with good lighting or nobody believes you're really struggling.
But not everyone can scream. Sometimes vulnerability looks like canceling plans. Sometimes it looks like "I'm tired." Sometimes it's just... silence.
Which means we have to reach out first. Not because we're fine, but because we know what not-fine looks like.
Pause
When one person says "I want to die," it gives someone else permission to say "me too."
🧠 Neuroscience time: That's not poetry, that's literally just mirror neurons doing their job. Co-regulation. Emotional contagion. Basic biology. We're wired for resonance — one brave voice makes another feel safe. That's how we break shame's spell.
ME:
You weren't broken. You were human.
Nobody told you that.
And we died for it.
THE DEBATE
Suddenly I'm in a podcast studio.
Red foam walls. Two mics. That fucking succulent.
They're already here. Warm eyes. Genuine concern. Adjusting their mic like this was always scheduled. Not any specific guru. Just every voice that ever told you your pain was a choice. The kind of person who really believes suffering is optional if you just do the work.
THAT WRITER™:
Pierre, thank you for being so vulnerable about your experience. Can I ask something—gently—about what you're holding onto?
ME:
Gently for who?
THAT WRITER™:
I'm wondering—and I ask this with love—have you considered that staying in this pain might be serving you somehow?
ME:
Serving me? What, like I have a loyalty card with my suffering? Ten breakdowns and the eleventh is free?
THAT WRITER™:
I'm not saying you want it. I'm saying sometimes we get... attached to familiar pain. It becomes part of our identity.
ME:
Attached? I was trying to leave the entire earth. There was no attachment. There was gravity.
THAT WRITER™:
But you did survive. You're here. That's beautiful. Now it's time to let go of those past versions of yourself and move forward.
ME:
"Let go"? The 17-year-old kept me alive. The 29-year-old is why I write. You want me to what, forget them?
THAT WRITER™:
They served their purpose. But carrying them forever—doesn't that keep you stuck in that pain?
ME:
choking on Q's protein shake
Stuck? I built an entire fucking machine. I'm writing. I'm here at 2 AM arguing with you in an imaginary podcast. That's not stuck. That's architecture.
THAT WRITER™:
But wouldn't you rather be free? To just... be happy?
ME:
"Just be happy"? You're talking about my nervous system like it's a Netflix subscription I can cancel.
THAT WRITER™:
leaning forward
When people truly heal—when they finally release what happened to them—something shifts. You can feel it. They're lighter. At peace.
ME:
Lighter? You mean more convenient. You're measuring recovery by how comfortable we make YOU feel.
THAT WRITER™:
That's not what I—
ME:
You said "release what happened." Like trauma is a balloon I can just let go and watch float away. My body keeps the score, remember? Or does that only count when you're selling workshops?
THAT WRITER™:
I've helped thousands of people find peace through gratitude practices and mindset work—
ME:
Your "gratitude practice" is emotional bypassing with a journal. You're teaching people to gaslight themselves into feeling better.
THAT WRITER™:
You're getting defensive. That's actually a trauma response—
ME:
You just used "trauma response" to dismiss my argument. That's like saying "you're upset" to win a debate. Yeah, I'm upset. My upset has a PhD in your bullshit.
Weaponized softness.
Emotional gaslighting dipped in honey.
THAT WRITER™:
Look, anyone can heal from anything with the right mindset and support—
ME:
pause
Tell that to the kid getting bullied who jumped off a bridge last week. Tell that to the mother of three who couldn't afford therapy. Tell that to everyone in this room who didn't make it.
Your "anyone can heal" just called them failures.
THAT WRITER™:
That's not—I would never—
ME:
But you did. You just did. You said "anyone can heal" which means anyone who doesn't just didn't try hard enough. Didn't think positive enough. Didn't fucking journal enough gratitude.
THAT WRITER™:
shifting uncomfortably
We have to believe healing is possible—
ME:
No. We have to believe LIVING WITH IT is possible. Not transcending, not moving past, not letting go. Integration. Building something that can hold all of it.
THAT WRITER™:
That sounds like you're choosing to stay broken—
ME:
laughing
There it is. "Choosing." Like my 29-year-old self chose to be exploited. Like everyone who's gone chose their ending.
THAT WRITER™:
People need hope—
ME:
People need truth. They need someone to say "this is fucking hard and you're not failing." They need someone who won't flinch when they say they want to die.
You know what actually helped? Someone sitting next to me saying "tell me about the thoughts that scare you." Not "be grateful." Not "think positive." Just "I'm listening."
THAT WRITER™:
But we can't encourage dwelling on negative thoughts—
ME:
You think talking about suicide encourages it? Journal of Affective Disorders says open dialogue reduces attempts by 60%. Your silence is what's dangerous.
THAT WRITER™:
We should focus on solutions—
ME:
The problem is people think they ARE the problem. I don't need your solutions. I need space to exist without performing recovery for your comfort.
THAT WRITER™:
This is very triggering for you—
ME:
Stop using "triggered" like it's a malfunction. My triggers are information. They're telling me you're unsafe.
THAT WRITER™:
I'm just trying to help—
ME:
No, you're trying to fix. There's a difference. You want me to be a success story you can point to. "Look, he was suicidal and now he's grateful!"
Your shit only works if I'm the problem.
Fuck your gratitude. I didn't need gratitude. I needed somewhere to put the pain. I'm here because I built something that could hold me. Not because I let go of anything.
THAT WRITER™:
long pause
That's a lot of anger—
ME:
Yes. It is. And it's mine. And it's real. And it's not going anywhere because you think it should.
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 they saw the truth. But because I'm the one writing the book. And I'm upset. And also I do what I want.)
The podcast studio dissolves like it was never there. Just me, sitting next to my 29-year-old self who's been watching this whole time.
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 want to die.
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 those 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.
Those who didn't make it are still here.
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 13-year-old who wanted to disappear, the 17-year-old drowning, the 29-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.
🧠 Status: Still here, still building, still human. Still gay. Still angry. Still glorious.
📍 Location: Peace™
🛂 Population: Everyone who made it this far
🎯 Mission: Make sure nobody else has to figure this out alone
🌀 FILE CLOSED: ANGER TURNED INTO ARCHITECTURE
Dedication: To the versions of us who didn't make it. And to everyone who's still holding on.