IT MAKES SENSE IN THE END.

I'm sitting in my bed finishing this painting and I wonder if any of this makes sense. This bed is the same bed where I shed my endless tears for my dead mother. The place I felt the safest to be weak, have a self conversation, a self question, and a self wonder. This is the bed where I had the idea of suicide: "I can do it with the help of her pills." I could have taken the pills and slept forever. I remember feeling desperately brave to kill myself, without any hesitation or scare. The most meaningless two weeks of my life took away my willingness to live. Nothing made sense. I felt incredibly lonely. I felt it so unfair that I had to go through the loss of the person who loved me the most in this world while those strangers outside were laughing, holding hands and just be happy. "How could this happen to me?" My tears fell down my face uncontrollably. I had dinner in my room while crying for weeks. I thought maybe nothing would make sense anymore. No one would ever love me as much as she did. No one would ever accept my flaw and help me out. So that night, her pills were in my hands. Pills that supported heart diseases but would kill a healthy heart in minutes.

They sat in my hands quietly. I tried to find a reason not to swallow, but I found nothing. The pills were slowly melting with my sweat. Time was tiking. I turned my head to the side of the pills and was about to finish everything. But I turned enough to see the sarcasm of the night, the glimpse of the beige shirtdress I wore to hang out with my friend. How inelegant it was to be hung on my door. How cruel life was for my friend to lose her mother when she was in primary school. And suddenly that shirtdress made sense. Suddenly I didn't know if I was a coward or a total coward. All of the sudden, the pills in my hands became disgusting.

It's been two years since my mother died. Two years since I first had the sympathy for people who committed suicide. I want to say, I understand. My life has improved a lot. I have become a better person. The sadness I felt no longer is bad. It's a gift. I have never seen or talked to my mother since her death. Perhaps once in my dream. I wonder what she thinks of me now. I've been through enough to know death is no mercy or torture. Death is death. Death means done. Life goes on. People who live will receive.