Suicide - The real victims - by That Dark Writer

I’ve been itching to write something on this for a while — and finally, the opportunity has presented itself. This has been eating at me for too long. Yes, I agree — some people are stronger than others. Some of us process pain and hardship differently. But let me make one thing clear: that does not justify suicide. Being overwhelmed does not make ending your life acceptable. And I know this might rub people the wrong way, but I don’t care anymore. I don’t sympathize with people who commit suicide — or those who attempt to. I don’t think they’re brave. I don’t think they’re victims. I think they’re cowards. Pathetic even. I’ve tried to put myself in their shoes. I’ve imagined the pain, the pressure, the loneliness — but no matter how far I stretch my imagination, I still don’t see myself taking my own life. Why? Because some of us, quite frankly, are built differently. Stronger. And that strength is not a privilege — it’s a choice. Whenever I hear of someone who has taken their life, the first thought that comes to my mind is, “Did they not think of their family? Their friends? Do those people mean absolutely nothing to them?” Are they just disposable? Is their pain the only one that matters? And since most of you are too scared to say it, I will. The most disgusting ones are the people who kill themselves because of heartbreak. Yes. You read that right. Heartbreak. A cheating partner, a failed relationship, and suddenly life no longer has meaning? You make me sick. Let’s speak the truth some of you are too polite to say. Some teenagers and youths today — they aren’t just struggling, they’re selfish. Utterly selfish. Kanipe, they're not selfish ni,tell me how your parents sacrifice everything to put you through school, to give you a shot at a better life, and what do they get in return? News of your death. Not from sickness. Not from an accident. But from love. You killed yourself because someone left you? Because someone cheated? Because someone said they didn’t love you anymore? Make it make sense. At this point, let me shift the focus. Because the more I dwell on the people who end their lives, the darker my thoughts get. Let’s talk about the people they leave behind. Because everyone always tells me, “Put yourself in the victim’s shoes,” but who ever stops to think about the pain their parents feel? Their siblings? Their friends? Who puts themselves in their shoes? Some Yoruba mothers will cry, “Ikunle abiyamo o,” and yes, it’s painful. But pain doesn’t even begin to describe what they go through. Imagine spending your whole life building your child’s future, only for them to throw it away over a person who probably moved on within a week. God forbid — but if a sibling of mine ever kills himself because of a girl, I will not mourn. I will be angry. Furious. Deeply disappointed. You expect me to cry? How do I cry for someone who didn’t think about me? Who didn’t think about our parents? Who didn’t even pause to consider how his actions would destroy the people who love him? You’ll say I’m heartless. Fine. But the one who killed himself — that’s the real heartless one. I honestly cannot understand how they think. I try — but I can’t. So you were pushed to a wall, and the only option you saw was to die? Because of a girl? Because she broke your heart? Please. Let me say it as clearly as possible — my gender is not worth dying over. Women can be wicked. Cunning. Unforgiving. That’s not bitterness — that’s truth. Dying over one? That’s not love. That’s stupidity. That’s weakness. That’s waste. And yes, this is just my opinion. You don’t have to agree. Yours might be softer. More empathetic. But I’ve carried this rage for too long to keep quiet. I choose to speak. And no — you can’t crucify me for it. That age has passed. Let’s stop pretending every suicide is a tragedy. Some of them are just plain selfish.

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