A Letter to the Person Considering Suicide

By Nik Wiles • July 5, 2016

Dear Person Considering Suicide,

If you kill yourself, a bunch of weird stuff is not going to happen to you.

For example, a man in an old suit jacket (the kind of jacket with elbow patches) will not come up to you and your group of friends tomorrow and say, “Y’all ain’t nothing but a bunch of spices.”

I know you’re in a lot of pain, but there may be no more extraordinarily weird moment than the spice moment. Then again, there may be a weirder moment than the spice moment; trouble is, you’ve got to stick around to find out.

Please don’t think I am trying to say I understand. I’m just writing to tell you not to miss the spice moments. I know I can’t understand exactly what you’re going through. And it doesn’t really matter what experiences I’ve had or how similar they are to what’s making you feel so hopeless you’d rather die than continue experiencing them. We are individuals, and we are different.

But I love you.

Right, I know—I can’t love you because I don’t know you and therefore my love is nothing more than a platitude to keep you on the planet. Don’t resist my love. The last person who resisted my love regretted it because I wound up outside their apartment singing a Moulin Rouge show tune dressed as Ewan McGregor.

But no, I’m serious. I love you in the way that humans are capable of loving people they don’t know. It’s like the thin icing on top of a cake; the love is made up of all these ingredients that don’t cost much—patience and gentleness and goodwill—but when spread across the surface they make everything better.

Asking you to hold on another day may not seem fair. If you’re considering suicide, you’ve probably been holding on for what feels like a painfully long time already. Chances are, people don’t even realize how tough you’ve been so you’re not getting any credit for that either. Congratulations, you. Congratulations for holding on. I can’t see ending this letter without a video game metaphor, so when I ask you to hold on until tomorrow and until the next day and until the day after that, pretend you’re playing the longest video game ever created—each day is a level to beat.

If you need a name for the video game, call it Spice Moments. After all, the spice moments are why I am asking you to stay alive. I’m asking you to stay alive for the weird. I beg you to stay alive for the friends you don’t know you have, or even the friends you don’t have yet who need you. I respectfully request that you not blow me off because you think I don’t understand. I’m asking you to take my letter to heart because we are similar in our humanity.

No one else may ask you not to kill yourself today. Please don’t let my letter be a missed opportunity. Don’t let the bond we are developing as you read pass us by. Let’s make cake together. Even if we never meet in person, let’s make so much cake together. As much cake as we can stand.

I leave you with these final words of encouragement—

If in ten years, while walking down the street (you being very much alive), you see a woman dressed up as Ewan McGregor singing the verse, “All you need is love,” while serving cake to strangers…well, that’s not me.

Though, to be honest, I’d be privileged to meet you ten years from now.

No, it won’t be me. But it will be one of your spice moments. It’ll be weird and wonderful, and it’ll be waiting for you.

With love,

A friend

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