Breathe
By Marilú Acosta
I danced with the angel of death. We laughed out loud. He whispered in my ear. I held his hand. We talked face to face. He cooed to me. We walked for long stretches. He wiped away my tears. I have stepped on the threshold of his house. I saw her huge heart. I comforted her. We embraced. We have cultivated a deep friendship. I have become her voice. I have lent her my eyes. She has woven words for me. My life, I cannot conceive it without death.
Every time I have thought about dying, I have the certainty that it is my decision to stay in life or to leave it, that there is nothing surprising about it. Suicide is so close to me that I have researched different options and know in detail the substance of choice, where to get it, how much, what is the means of administration and the immediate effects, before reaching death. I have experienced the harrowing of suicidal thoughts, the mental, psychological, emotional and physical exhaustion of pondering death. I have heard a voice as deep as thunder and as deep as infinity telling me: you can go, but you will have to start all over again. All over? I ask. Everything, he answers, absolutely everything you will live again. The prospect of repeating was incentive enough to continue breathing.
