Should I kill myself, or have a cup of coffee?

The last Thursday of October in 2012 was the first time I cried in class. It happened involuntarily, after my principal coughed something like “I am sorry to inform you that…” through the overhead announcement. I felt the chill to my right from her chair that’d been making empty promises of her return, just like last time. Except this time, there was apparently no next time.

That Saturday, I repurposed my well-worn black concert attire for the ceremony of my best friend’s life. The turnaround was quicker than I’d imagined, as was the sorrow she left everyone that disappeared in the coming days.

But that day, she left something with me permanently: a choice.

“Should I kill myself, or have a cup of coffee?”

I read the Albert Camus quote with a bit of levity and a lot of solemnity. Before her, Death had been the subject in a sentence, something that selects its victims. After her, Death became the object in the sentence, something that she selected. That day shattered my societal illusion that Death was a demon waiting at my road’s end and instead was a companion escorting my every step. Death is just another choice. And necessarily, life is just another choice.

“But in the end one needs more courage to live than to kill himself,” Camus concluded.

As they say, life is suffering and living is pain. But I have little to lament. I have good health, enough wealth, incredible friends, and a sound mind, or so I do hope. My parents have gifted me a fortunate life with a future so many would envy. There is no question whether I should live.

Yet, she gave me a choice that haunts me like a chronic ankle sprain. They say once you sprain your ankle, the risk of reinjury increases because your brain loses the ability to efficiently communicate with that ligament. That day silenced the voice in my brain that formerly feared death. In its stead stood the choice of life. Should I kill myself, or go to the gym? Should I kill myself, or finish my project? Should I kill myself, or call my friend? A misstep on the streets, a knot of the sheets — it’s all too easy to admit mortal defeat.

Maybe I am selfishly lured by the promise of experiencing the next joy in life. The joy of accomplishing that upcoming milestone. The joy of sharing memories. The joy of sweating buckets while running the six-point-one mile Central Park loop with Justin Bieber on full blast during a sundown in early August. The joy of drinking soup that tastes like home. And, perhaps if I’m lucky, the joy of falling in love for the last time.

Maybe I am selfishly deflecting guilt. The guilt of quitting. The guilt of disappointing myself. The guilt of abandoning my friends. The guilt of not realizing my potential cultivated from the goodwill of mentors and strangers alike. The guilt of breaking my parents, as if they had failed to raise their only child despite their every single sacrifice that screams to the contrary.

Maybe I am frightened by what lies beyond my final breath.

My notebook smirks as I lift my cup to find an unfamiliar ring of caffeine stains. A forever mark that contrasts her ephemeral chuckle that bantered, “Carpe diem,” a maxim she inspired through example. I grin at our anecdotes of pubescent idiocy as we haphazardly experimented with reactive ingredients during our chemistry lab, as we exchange scribbles on iconic quotes by our math teacher while he explained trigonometry proofs. Between our accidental neighboring seat arrangements in multiple classes and daily walks to the community library, she became my adopted older sister. I recall as she blithely biked past midnight through one of the most dangerous cities in America to my parents’ place and downed alcohol to anesthetize her familial arguments as she joked about wishing to die young. I laugh. She was so excited to teach me those survival skills she’d absorbed in jail as a runaway.

That day was her last lecture. The lesson? I can choose to live, instead of being afraid to die.

If life is a choice, then I ought to live a life more worthy than my death. If I must be judged by the series of decisions I make, then I shall take acts of valor she taught in her honor. I think I stayed true to my word.

Then, why does every heartbeat awash me in numbness? Every pump is a desperate attempt to grasp an invisible meaning that slips between my fingers.

They say the magic fades once you’ve learned the trick. Well, I guess she uncovered the eternal mystery of what’s beyond the grave — not about the afterlife, but about the aftermath. That Monday, after barely two days, school returned to normal. A blemished boy rehearses his flirting technique as he leans towards a girl grabbing an oversized textbook from a locker. A clique of cheerleaders in the cafeteria gasped at the latest football scandal. A teacher fumes at that student who again refused to complete their homework. An existence erased. We were reduced to a bag of memorabilia leaning against a tree by the Pacific Coastal cliff where she took her solitary leap of faith.

My reflection squinted at me against my polished plastic desk. She mouthed, “Life moves on.” I am intoxicated by the naïveté of the normies who deceive themselves with stupid positivity. I am conquered by the betrayal of those motivational crap about how beautiful resilience is, “How beautiful!” Words, words, words.

If death is inevitable, what is the purpose of my life?

Some say to follow my passion, my calling. “Do what you love,” as if consummating that advice were easy, as if I wouldn’t face the gentle indifference of the world. Some say to stop and smell the roses. Savor the bite of baked banana bread, the sound of crunching autumn leaves, the vibrations of a racket as a ball ricochets off the sweet spot. But there’s a tear every time that I blink.

I envision the day I will be abandoned as another “Unidentified Body Washed Up On Shore.” I could have invented the Internet. I could have listened to those Effective Altruists and saved a bunch of African children’s lives with malaria nets. I could have led a full life rife with fruits of labor. But when I am gone, I will take all my joy with me.

But I’ve discovered a trick: we can share dashes of delight. We can be survived by the stories we build together. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I surround myself with those I love. Or maybe I’m silencing the voice in my head that whispers, “Should I kill myself, or cook pasta?” Of course not. I want to be a caring friend, a loving daughter, and, someday, a wonderful wife. As pathetic as it sounds, I find meaning in people.

You question why I can’t seem to enjoy doing things alone. I’ve tried. I am jealous of the narcissists who have found significance in themselves, the incels who have acknowledged comfort in their own legacy, and the feminists who have been enlightened with self-sufficiency. They call it “freedom,” or something. Please accept my apologies, for I can’t find the words to express my sense of futility in an existence where my happiness dies with me. And please forgive my cowardice, for refusing to relinquish those with whom I’ve built my happiness. I know it’s a bad habit I developed, holding on to people. I know I’m foolish for giving you the keys to my bliss. I know I am greedy for forcing you to hold the weight of my heart. Sorry I never asked for your permission. And sorry I can’t let you go.

Because thirteen years, nine cities, and four laptops later, I still can’t abolish these absentminded moments when I turn my head to giggle an inanity at her.

And without a warranty, life lacks tomorrow’s guarantee. I mean, it’s cliché to cherish the gift of the present. It’s in constant opposition with our obsession of a better future. We believe that if we wait — wait to do the right things at the right time, wait to say the right things at the right time — we can somehow manifest the life we dream. But what if we run out of time?

So I say the words I want to say. Now. So I do the things I want to do. Now. So I am free from regret when I reach to my right for the hands of Death. Now, do you understand why I extended our last rendezvous? Now, do you see why I made us walk in the freezing holiday-lit city streets to actualize my winter fantasies with you last December? Now, do you hear why I needed to tell you “I love you” before my last departure? Because what is free now becomes priceless later.

Everyone has a vice they cannot control. Mine is a tether to you. Maybe you are the price I must pay to keep me shackled to life. Maybe she has disqualified me from achieving enlightenment. Maybe I must accept defeat in converting to a Platonic feminist. Because my raison d’être is derived from sharing my life with others. It’s a balance, but I don’t know where to place the fulcrum.

That day killed the mirage of meaning in me. As I wander past busy cafés, I glance at the footprints of my life as consequential as an appendix, as memorable as a message memorialized in sand. As I drink from a glass, I smile at my apathetic likeness. I fantasize how I might feel to be remembered like a ripple in the water. I wonder when it would burst, the overflowing meniscus held by the tension of my ambivalence. I wonder if I’m being too dramatic.

But that day, she saved me.

I was resurrected by a shock that altered my heart, and I awoke from a state of indoctrinated autopilot: following rules that were never written and welcoming excuses that were never challenged. I found solace in my involuntary independence from the restraints of society. And I confess, I appreciated the beauty within myself for the first time. I noticed the aftershocks of autonomy as I felt empowered to make my own luck, especially without blessings of “the right time” or “meant to be.” My every commitment was one with deliberation. I should thank her for bestowing me the bravery to make the most of every moment.

My every heartbeat synchronized its rhythm to the fragility of life that it previously disregarded under the guise of time. Yet every pump presents a lifetime of possibilities.

“What is your choice?” she demands.

Gee, I don’t know. I suspect I’ll never know.

I think this is supposed to be the part of the story where I kill myself. But…

This Saturday, I will read The Brothers Karamazov on my friend’s recommendation while nibbling on croissants, pronounced “KWA-saan,” from Fabrique Bakery on Portobello Road.

Next Thursday, how about we have a cup of coffee?

I hope, my friend, that you’ve finally found your shelter ❤︎

My emotional reaction to someone’s suicide note.