I put my suicidal ideology to death and live instead

I once believed the world would be better off without me.

It wasn’t just a thought—it was an ideology. A worldview I’d constructed from pain, isolation, and the quiet belief that I was a burden. I wore my suffering like armor. I thought the final act of courage would be to disappear.

But here’s the thing no one tells you: suicidal thinking isn’t always loud. It takes over your life. It starts as self-doubt, then self-contempt, until death seems not just appealing—it seems logical. I didn’t want to die because I hated life; I wanted to die because I thought I’d already failed at living.

Then something broke. Not in a destructive way—but in a revealing one. I remember one night, sitting on my apartment floor, staring at a glass of water. Just water. And for whatever reason, I thought, “This is here. This is still here. And so am I.” That simple presence cracked the spell. I saw my own ideology for what it was: a belief system rooted not in truth, but in trauma. In exhaustion. In loneliness.

So I made a decision—not to live instead of dying, but to live against the idea that death was the only answer. I had to kill the belief that I was meant to fade.

It wasn’t instant. It wasn’t easy. But I started talking. I reached out. I let myself be seen. And each time I said, “I want to try,” I was burying that old narrative and choosing a new one.

I still have hard days. But now I understand something crucial: I am not a burden. My story isn’t shameful. And the world—the real, breathing, beautiful world—wants me here.

I put my suicidal ideology to death.

And I live instead.

Because I can.

Because I want to.

Because I am allowed to.