Cho-cho was my dog; and the sweetest little one at that. He was a miniature schnauzer, and I’d had him all my life. Cho and I were good friends, and I even called him brother. We hid from fireworks together, ran under the fading sun together, snacked on things we shouldn’t have together...

Cho, my little butterfly, died four days ago. He had a long, happy life, and it wasn’t until his final year, or even months, that he truly began to fail. He was blind and nearly deaf, his little hips slipping out of position, legs buckling under him. I dreaded the day I would have to say goodbye to my little puppy I’d known so long. There was a place in my heart for him I didn’t even know existed.

Eventually, he got worse and worse. He was still functioning fine, even for an old dog, but I knew it was time. It broke my heart to see him go. He ate his breakfast, like normal. I gave him a treat, like normal. I hugged and cuddled him, like normal. He had no idea he would no longer be there come afternoon. And I was dreading it, dreading it. I had known the day before that the next day would be his last. And I cried. Though I am nearly an adult, I hid in my room and cried. I couldn’t look at him, even when he pawed at my door asking for his evening attention. I did let him in though, and spent our last night together.

Strangely enough, the next morning couldn’t come soon enough. To my horror, I almost felt eager to leave, to have it be over with. It was almost like resignation, perhaps hope, I’m not sure. But I left for the veterinarian without shedding a tear. Carrying a box. Still, I couldn’t watch his final breath. I let the vet do that.

Now my fur child lies two feet under dirt in my back yard. I sometimes get that hollow empty feeling when I look at his grave, when I get hyperaware of my surroundings, my shoulders cave and I have to let it out.

I’m not sure if I feel sad, but when I replay his final happy morning, it brings tears to my eyes. When others ask me about it, or express their sympathy, I almost seem apathetic. Which worries me. All I said to them was, “Life begins, and it ends. That’s all there is to it.”

I’ve always felt a special connection to death. I could see it, feel it, surrounding me. Taste the dank chill, smell its otherwordly aura. And yet, it wasn’t always cold and forbidding. At one point, it even felt like a forgiveness, a dealmaker. It felt like a long-familiar friend, one with whom I could trust my darkest secrets, one who could keep me forever. It is a bittersweet relationship, one born of trust and experience. Those who have not tasted death yet are still barred from these experiences. I knew Death could take care of my body while my spirit ran free, ran free home.

This longing, to go home, deeper than I could ever realize, pulls me, compels me, drags me forward until I stand at Death’s gates. Like a songbird on its first flight, only then can I truly experience, know, become... freedom. I’ll run into Death’s arms, laughing and singing for the first time truly... and go beyond Death, to joy everlasting. This is home.

I tried with a noose, overdosing 2 bottles of coughing syrup, drowning myslef. Guess death itslef doesn't want me. I am still struggling trying to cope with the harsh reality of life where ignorance is supposed to be a bliss. I went in and out of therapy, and all I can say it has been helping me alot. Writing letters and burning them down relieves me. A message out there, don't kill yourself. xoxo