Fragments of suicide notes found near the suicides. Suicide Notes: The Last Words of a Suicide. Mary, Queen of Scots. Last letter to Henry III, King of France

A suicide note is an important attribute of a voluntary death for a suicide and a way to penetrate the last thoughts of a voluntarily deceased for scientists. We study what and why people write before death for centuries.

"Volodka! I am sending you a receipt from the cash desk of loans - redeem, brother, my velvet jacket and wear it to your health. I'm going on a journey from where no one has ever returned. Farewell, my friend, yours to the grave, which I will need soon "
(student to friend,
late 19th - early 20th century)

What changes occur in the minds of people who decide to commit suicide? Suicidological studies show that there are quite typical cognitive processes inherent in potential and realized suicides. For example, consciousness narrows, that is, a person’s thinking becomes obsessed with the “all or nothing” principle, when all things are divided into black and white, and a difficult situation rises to the rank of a completely hopeless one. Mental filtering occurs: the individual is often fixed on one unpleasant or terrible memory, a moment that constantly pops up in the mind as proof of the insignificance of his existence. This is complemented by the discrediting of the positive, when a person denies the significance or the very existence of pleasant and joyful experiences and events that begin to be perceived painfully, as some kind of atavism in his depressive picture of the world. The consciousness of a person in such a state is filled with unbearable mental pain, which becomes more and more difficult to fight.

“Dear aunt! I am in the forest now. I'm having fun, picking flowers and looking forward to the train. It would be crazy to ask God for help in what I have in mind, but I still hope to fulfill my desire. ”
(class lady (teacher in the women's gymnasium),
late 19th - early 20th century)

Suicidologists have to work hard to find data that would broadly and qualitatively cover the mental state of a suicide. First of all, stories and written notes of surviving suicides are used for this, where they describe in detail how their consciousness changed sometimes for several months before they decided on the last step. Another valuable material is suicide notes, the last words of a man who has crossed the line. However, usually only 15-40% of suicides leave suicide letters, which limits the possibility of using this source as the most reliable source for interpreting the motives of suicides. But in criminology, for qualifying death as a suicide, a suicide note is one of the strongest arguments (along with the characteristic method of death, place and family circumstances). Of course, there is always the possibility of a fake note to make the murder look like a suicide, but at the moment there is a whole well-developed technique that aims to distinguish false suicide notes from real ones.

“I am very tired of this whirlwind of emotions, so I decided to put an end to it by passing away”
(a woman in her sixties,
end of the 20th century)

A suicide note tells a lot: what a person felt, what he thought, who he would like to see at the last moment, what he advises those close ones whom he leaves, and most importantly, what is the motive for his unwillingness to continue life on any terms. "Suicide note" is the most accurate expression. This is a really short message, which most often fits on a notebook or printed sheet. But there are also real suicide letters - long treatises, touching on a variety of topics - from unrequited love to the current political and economic situation. It is characteristic that the functionality of the paper in this case is limited - only a few close people, a few policemen and investigators will read the farewell words of the suicide (with the exception of those cases when the suicide notes are published in the media). The Internet, in particular social networks, can be considered as a new public space for writing suicide letters. Here, already thousands of people will be able to see and read the dying message, which, however, sometimes acquires a demonstratively blackmailing character.

"Let's leave beautifully"
(Denis Muravyov, Katerina Vlasova,
2016)

Perhaps the first suicide note was written on papyrus.

“…Who am I talking to now?
The brothers are evil
And a righteous person is considered an enemy.
Who am I talking to now?
No righteous left
The land was given to the creators of lawlessness ....

Death is before me now
Like the smell of myrrh
Like sailing in the wind.
Death is before me now
Like the smell of lotus flowers
Like sweet drunken madness.
Death is before me now
Like a longing to return home
After many years in captivity

These lines of poetry, a cry from the heart almost four thousand years ago, are now in the Berlin Museum. They were written by an unknown Egyptian on papyrus, presumably during the Middle Kingdom (2040-1783 BC) of Ancient Egypt. Most of the papyrus has been lost, but four poems have survived, each of which began with its own anaphora and represented a conversation between a person and his soul. There are many religious and philosophical references in the text that reflect the worldview of the Egyptians of that time, but here's what is interesting: the state of depressive reflection in which the author is immersed corresponds exactly to the modern description of the state of mind of patients suffering from severe depression. This is the same conflict with conscience because of the desire to commit suicide, depression, uncertainty about the future, a gloomy picture of the world, paranoia. And even such a detail: the Egyptian believes that others treat him as a bad smell or an unfaithful wife - so modern patients with severe depressive disorders tend to believe that they exude bad smells. It is hard to say for sure whether this unfortunate man ended up killing himself, but it seems that the symptoms of a depressive mental state have not changed over the millennia.

"I'm tired of living and I'm not fit"
(teacher,
late 19th - early 20th century)

(there was text here)

“The sun rises for me for the last time; it is impossible to live when honor was suspected, the poor heart will stop suffering when it stops beating, but it is a pity that not from a French bullet.

And after the publication of Goethe's novel The Sorrows of Young Werther, a wave of imitative suicides of young people swept across Europe, who considered suicide from unrequited love a beautiful romantic act. And subsequently, such a death was established as a literary cliché.

“I begged her on my knees to come back, but she didn’t understand. Goodbye everyone!"
(Vitaly Zheleznov,
year 2014)

Is suicide considered justified, the reason for which was the departure of the spouse? In modern society, such a reason, most likely, does not seem significant enough. But the cultural taboo against suicide, the social rejection of this phenomenon, works only within certain limits. As long as the case is abstract, people tend to condemn suicide. However, with the advent of a real incident, the attitude towards this changes:

“Dear Mary, I am writing these lines to you because they are the last. I really thought you and baby Joe would come back into my life, but you never did. I know that you have found another person, obviously better than me. I hope that son of a bitch dies. I love you so much and Joe too. It hurts so much to think that nothing worked out for you and me. I dreamed a lot about our life together, but it turned out to be only dreams. I always hoped that they would come true, but now I am sure that this will never happen. I hope to be in heaven, although in my case I will surely go to hell ... "

The suicide note, as it were, animates the specific case of one unfortunate person, it reveals his motives, his experiences, which can be understood; empathy kicks in. The social notion “suicide is bad” fades into the background, and sympathy, human understanding is connected instead.

“… Please take care of little Joe, because I love him with all my heart. Don't tell him what happened. Say that I went far, far away and maybe someday I will return. Add that you don't know exactly when. Well, that seems to be it. Take care of yourself. P.S. I know we had chances to make up, but you didn't want it, you wanted to fuck someone else, well, now you've made it. I can't really tell if I hate you or love you. You will never know. Sincerely yours, your husband George"
(male, twenty-four years old,
end of the 20th century)

A suicide note is the last communicative act of a person who has decided to take his own life. Suicidologists identify certain parameters for the analysis of suicide notes, which make it possible to understand the experiences and emotional states of suicides, as well as characteristic, recurring motives; Ultimately, this helps the experts of the preventive suicidological service to act more effectively.

Suicide letters in most cases have recipients. Often this is a spouse, children, mother, other relatives. These are letters of apology, a wish to live happily ever after, about love, sometimes it can be a cynical message:

“My dear parents, I inform you that I retired from the white world, and you be healthy”
(a young man from a merchant family,
late 19th - early 20th century)

In some cases, when the act of suicide plays the role of a protest against the structure of society, the mass audience becomes the addressee. For example, this is a note from businessman Ivan Ankushev, who committed several murders of the city's ruling elite of Kirovsk before committing suicide (2009):

“Letter of Confrontation. I am an entrepreneur Ivan Ankushev, I run a business and own four stores. I am not allowed to do what I want to do. There is no hope for the honesty of the arbitral tribunal. You have destroyed me. Can't live to see mushroom picking. This is my favorite pastime."

Most of the notes touch on certain topics: the most common is an apology for one's act or for one's entire life, the second most mentioned is the inability to endure suffering or pain, then love, practical instructions or advice, and also, of course, accusations. Often these themes are combined:

“Forgive me, because today I will die. I just can't live without you. And that means you can die. Maybe there will be peace. I have such a terrible feeling of emptiness inside that just kills me. No more strength to endure it. When you left me I died inside. I must say that I have nothing left but a broken heart, and this is what pushes me to such an act. I cry out to God to help me, but He does not hear me. I had no other choice"
(a man of thirty-one,
end of the 20th century)

Death messages are often filled with heavy emotions: guilt and regret, feelings of hopelessness, anger, shame, fear. In most cases, guilt and regret predominate:

“Khana, take care of yourself and your son and forgive me for your warped life: forgive me, my holy Khana! If I didn’t get along with you, then with whom in the world can I live ”
(lieutenant,
late 19th - early 20th century)

Anger is much less common, and it is more typical for men who accuse their wives of driving them to suicide. But there are also angry messages from women, for example, a letter from an adult pupil of an orphanage to a former teacher (late 19th - early 20th century):

“Did you really turn your tongue to say that I was a woman when I got along with you. Know, cursed one, that the child is already moving, and, dying, both I and he curse you. You could restore life to me and to him with one word. You didn't want to. Let all the misfortunes be on your head. Endure only failures in all matters, be a vagabond, a drunkard, and let my curse weigh on you everywhere and everywhere. I will haunt you day and night... I really want to live.”

Based on the analysis of emotions, topics and addressees of suicide letters, suicidologists identified the alleged motives for suicides:

Avoidance

(guilt, punishment, suffering)

This is the most frequently mentioned motive - the inability to endure further unbearable mental pain, loss, guilt or shame for a socially unacceptable act.

(revenge)

Protest against severe family problems, against the injustice of society towards the individual, against cruelty is another frequent motive, which occurs much more often among people in the age group from twenty-six to thirty-five years. This motif is often associated with the expression of emotions of anger and accusation, and the note is often addressed to a specific person.

"This is revenge, she pressed on my chest"
(Bekir Nebiev, 2015)

self-punishment

An attempt to punish oneself or expiate guilt for actions that are subjectively assessed as difficult and irreparable.

Compulsion

The motive, the purpose of which is to draw the attention of the recipients to some problem and force them to change their behavior.

The note may be a desperate attempt to draw other people's attention to their mental suffering, is not necessarily demonstrative, and may not be perceived by the person himself as a cry for help.

Often motives are combined, combined with each other. Although not all suicide notes are easy to interpret and talk about the presence of some motives. There are concise, short messages, from which it is difficult to understand anything (the end of the 19th - the beginning of the 20th century): “I want to go to the other world”, “It's time to play catch”. Or unusual notes containing existential reflections:

“Feelings experienced at the top of the cliff at Kegon Falls: The world is too big and history is too long to be appreciated by such a tiny creature as a five-foot tall creature ... The true nature of all things is beyond understanding. I decided to die with this thought… Now, at the top of the cliff, I no longer experience anxiety.”
(Mi-sao Fujimura, 1903)

Composing a suicide note can be a spontaneous decision, when it is written quickly, on the first piece of paper that comes to hand, or it can be comprehended for a long time. Anatoly Koni, a late 19th-century Russian lawyer who wrote Suicide in Law and Life, gives the following example: “The provincial artist Bernheim, twenty-two years old, is poisoned by cocaine and in a letter to her brother describes in detail the gradual sensation, “when the soul flies away under the influence of the poison ", and ends the letter with an unfinished phrase:" And here is the horse ... ". Nevertheless, short death messages written on a sheet torn from a notebook are more common:

“Do not blame anyone: the thorny path of life hampered my path, I tried to free myself, but in vain. Now I don’t want to go anymore and I can’t”
(teacher, late 19th – early 20th century)

Traditionally, paper is used for suicide letters, but there are exceptions: suicide notes are also found on random objects - scraps of wrapping or toilet paper, prescription forms, the surface of a tablecloth, or even leather. In a far from positive sense, social media is becoming an increasingly popular medium for posting death messages to family, friends, and more.

Albert Camus wrote: “There is only one really serious philosophical problem - the problem of suicide. To decide whether or not life is worth living is to answer the fundamental question of philosophy ... These are the conditions of the game: you need to give an answer. This is a good philosophical question, but in everyday life people don't tend to stop and find a place and time to think about the answer. Only for suicides - those who decide that the game is not worth the candle - the search for a solution becomes meaningful. And don’t they look in their notes for reasons that could refute the value of life with its endless suffering? They can be understood. But the result of reading a suicide letter may turn out to be paradoxical: thanks to empathy, readers think about the main philosophical problem: why do we exist and how should we live life.

• "I will leave beautifully"

  Pskov ninth-graders Denis Muravyov and Ekaterina Vlasova met for six months and ran away from home together more than once. The last time they decided to settle with their stepfather Vlasova - he worked as a special forces officer, and he had a safe with weapons. On the third day of searching for her son, Denis' mother called the police. Denis opened fire with a gun as soon as a police "bobby" drove up to the gate. It took several hours for unsuccessful negotiations with schoolchildren. All this time Denis and Ekaterina. On the evening of November 14, SOBR carried out an assault. When the commandos broke into the house, the children were already dead. The day before Catherine published farewell posts in social networks:

  "I loved you
  But you yourself did not notice how you destroyed my psyche and life.
  Farewell to all and friends, and family, and acquaintances.
  Don't worry, I'll leave beautifully.
  Good luck to everyone in your life and please do not be afraid to live as you want or see fit.
  Living for pleasure is the best life.
  Love you".

  "I'm not a hostage,
  This is my conscious choice."

  "Simferopol shooter"

  On September 26, 2015, at the ambulance substation in Simferopol, a man opened fire on the medical staff. Two doctors died and two were injured. A fragment of a cardiogram was found at the crime scene with the inscription:

  “This is revenge, she pressed on my chest.”

  The shooter fled. A month later, the body of a man, torn to pieces by animals, was found in the forest. The examination established that the man shot himself, a hunting rifle lay nearby. It was 55-year-old Bekir Nebiev, who was in conflict with doctors on the basis of allegedly incorrect diagnoses.

  "If everyone destroys at least one bastard"

  The murder of Stella-Bank director Denis Burygin in Rostov-on-Don became known on April 7. Burygin was killed right in his office, the body of the murderer, 54-year-old Sergei Feldman, who shot himself on the spot, was found nearby. Feldman turned out to be a businessman whose career had been on the decline for the past few years. The last straw was two loans in Stella - for 230 and 266 thousand dollars. Feldman left a note at the crime scene. Here are its fragments:

  “Monstrous chaos. The courts do not want to objectively understand the situation and take the side of the bank. Recently, in the corridors of the next court, the head of the legal department of the bank, Dyachenko, told me directly that they "have everything under control in the courts." The bank takes everything from the debtors to the skin, and they still owe the bank. Then these debtors are thrown out of the windows... This is waiting for you too.

  ...Why should I lie. I will soon stand before God's judgment.

  ... I have no other choice but to defend my rights myself and punish the scoundrels and scoundrels who have gone too far from extreme greed and impunity ... I really don’t want to die ... But even more I don’t want to live like a powerless beast ... If everyone will destroy at least one bastard, perhaps life will become better and cleaner ... ".

  "Russian sugar"

  On December 24, 2014, in Belogorsk, at the Russian Sugar trading base in the city center, Vitaly Zheleznov shot his wife Irina Zheleznova and one of the employees of the enterprise with a Tiger carbine, after which he tried to commit suicide. He died already in the hospital. Zheleznov often came to his wife at work to persuade her to return to him after parting. On the day of the massacre, he left an entry in his diary:

  “I begged her on my knees to come back, but she didn’t understand. Goodbye everyone!"

  "That's enough for me to take up arms"

  Disabled Sergei Rudakov prepared for the crime for several months. On August 24, 2010, in the Nizhny Tagil branch of the social insurance fund, Sergei shot at point-blank range lawyer Yuri Stoletov and director Elena Skulkina, and then shot himself. Rudakov was injured at work in 1991, and has since unsuccessfully sued social workers. Rudakov sent two letters with statements in advance: to the Nizhny Tagil Rabochy newspaper and to the local branch of the Communist Party of the Russian Federation. The 9-page text of the letters, abundantly criticizing the authorities and saturated with conspiracy theories, is published by Snob in fragments:

  “Until 1995, I worked in the Far North at the Yakutalmaz association (now ALROSA). Injured at work in 1991. Received disability payments from the company until 2000. Payments gradually decreased, not corresponding to 60% disability. To my questions about the reasons in the management of the enterprise, they always answered that everything is done strictly in accordance with the law. Since 2000, payments have been transferred to the Social Insurance Fund of the city of Yakutsk. Fund officials cut payments by 4 times!!!

  ...The whole history of mankind consists of wars, redistributions, struggle for power. And this is destruction, merciless exploitation of people for the sake of the interests of the “rulers”. There is a need for a mechanism that provides for any government inevitable, tough, criminal liability, even for a simple (minor) drop in the standard of living of the people. According to the principle - the higher the position in power, the greater the responsibility. UTOPIA.

  Entrepreneur Ivan Ankushev on March 26, 2009 shot with a TT pistol the head of the administration of the city of Kirovsk, Ilya Kelmanzon, and the director of the municipal enterprise Kirovskoye ZhKU, Sergei Maksimov, after which he committed suicide. The killer owned several shops, was socially active, and repeatedly sued various authorities over taxes and loans. A short letter from Ankushev was found on Kelmanzon's desk:

  “Letter of Confrontation. I am an entrepreneur Ivan Ankushev, I run a business and own four stores. I am not allowed to do what I want to do. There is no hope for the honesty of the arbitral tribunal. You have destroyed me. Can't live to see mushroom picking. This is my favorite pastime."

I always studied, I was at my best, but my parents were always unhappy ... The girl put a pen and a piece of paper on her desk and went to the bathroom. There she climbed into the bathroom, turned on the water and, clutching a clerical knife, cut her veins. There were no emotions on her face, she didn't care anymore... The blood was flowing... Tanya's head was spinning and she passed out... fell asleep... forever... Her mother, Margarita Petrovna, returned home. Hearing the sound of water, she decided that Tanya was taking a bath. The first thought of the mother was: “She decided to take a bath? The woman opened the bathroom door and the picture she saw shocked her, plunged her into fear. Tanechka lay in the bathroom lifeless. Blood on the wall was written "I can not be saved, look at my table ..." Margarita Petrovna did not care about the inscription. She called her husband and called an ambulance. The husband rushed in 6 minutes along with the ambulance. But as it was written on the wall, she can no longer be saved. The ambulance just said the time of death. Next came the police. The body of the girl was examined by experts, although it was already clear that it was suicide. Tanechka was taken to the morgue. Three days later, Tanya was buried. And only when her mother came to her room to give textbooks from the library, she found a note on her daughter's desk. It was Tanechka's suicide note. It was written in it: “Mom, Dad, If you are reading this, then I am already dead. I was silent for a long time about what I will write now, but I can’t stand it anymore. I know that my life does not belong to me and my family will be cursed to the seventh generation, but I am your only daughter and our family will end ... And I am writing about this: All my life I had no right to linger after school without a call to you and a good reason . My friends knew me only as the girl who is the best. I often wrote off all my homework and tests, but this did not interfere with my life. During these cheating, I could chat with my classmates. We also talked during breaks. But I was never invited anywhere to play or just even to the movies. That's how Papa came on the first of September in the fifth grade, and with me until the seventh, they were afraid to talk. As soon as I established relationships with my peers, you intervened here. Nobody talks to me again. But that's not the worst. You often told me that when I grow up, I will start my own company and become the richest man on the planet. But they didn't say anything about happiness. Is wealth the most important thing in life? The father of my best friend Dasha tells her that her mother went to heaven with the angels and only the happy go to heaven. What did you tell me when my grandfather died? That this old bastard finally glued his flippers together! Papa, if this old bastard hadn't met an old hag and fell in love with her, then you wouldn't even be born! You can be happy without a lot of money! Dasha and her Dad live normally without a lot of money. One question has always bothered me. Why should I study if I will still work as a manager in one of the stores of some lousy useless company? In our country there are no other professions. I will graduate from university and go to work on the recommendation, but I won’t last even a week. I'm going to work as that manager. And my four in work will not change anything, no matter how hard you try. Rolling up a scandal because of this was a very stupid act. You know that I have low self-esteem and still add fuel to the fire with your reproaches every God's day. Long suicide note, isn't it? This is only part of what I wanted to tell you, but let your conscience finally wake up in you and you will understand that no matter how you want it, fate will juggle me as it wants and this cannot be changed. I tried to tell you this live, but failed. Forgive me and I forgive you, but I don't want to live. Farewell and maybe someday you will heed these words. Your Tanechka ... ”After these words, Margarita Petrovna handed the note to her husband. After reading it, he realized that he himself was an old bastard. They invited a priest and dedicated the apartment, after which they sold all their property. They gave the money to the orphanage in order to somehow atone for their guilt before Tanechka. The girl's parents moved to the village to Margarita Petrovna's old father and took care of him as best they could. The woman got a job as a teacher in a rural school, and the Man as a combine operator at a local enterprise. They finally realized that it is better to live in poverty, but to be happy...

Hello, unknown, who is now reading my message. Excuse me that it all happened and I gave you a lot of unpleasant minutes, but after reading to the end, try to understand and forgive.
Today I want to apologize to all of you, my loved ones are not very. Today, because later it will be too late. I want to remember all of you and tell others about you so that they know about you.
My beloved S., you were the first one I loved in my life, and the last one I loved SO much. Your eyes, your hands, your voice. Your carefree laughter and overflowing energy. You led. You were pulling along. You chose me. And I chose you. These crazy nights, when we rushed like a dark metal mass on motorcycles in the company of people like you. Your back, which loomed before my eyes. The smell of leather, mixed with the subtle smell of your cologne and cigarettes. I held on to the belt of your jeans and leaned back, gasping for air in my face. I wanted to scream "LOVE!!!" and I screamed, but my scream was lost in the roar of twelve engines.
I remember those stops on the shores of the lakes, where, sitting by the fire, we all sat quietly and listened to you, laughing or thinking about your words. Where we, then thirteen children, shone in the dark with our eyes, making plans for the future, dreaming of many things and even a little more. And then you and I went down to the water, where you, holding my hands, ruffled my hair with your nose and whispered softly. Whispered about us, whispered poems, whispered about the future, about our children and that you will wait for me until I meet my 18 years, so that we can legally walk hand in hand. You were 6 years older than me. I believed you, I promised that I would also be with you all the time .... I kept my promise. And you... why did you leave me. So ridiculous, so rude. Why did you leave us, twelve, once children ... Damn! Why did you turn there? Why did you put me behind the other back then, and not behind yours? You knew... but you didn't say anything. WITH.! I still wake up at night when the light of your headlights suddenly turned sharply to the right, where, flying up on a pile of rubble, it crashed on a pile of these fucking reinforced concrete slabs ... and the squeal of brakes, my scream, which no one heard until I stopped talking, bringing silence to everyone. And this mess in the headlights, and not a word ... not a single one ... Only the heavy breathing of twelve already adults. And then some wrong, questioning sob from one of us, breaking through the dam of silence. And words, words, words ... a stream of words, movements, tears ... and everything passed me by ... they hurt me, they asked me something, but I stood there, seeing nothing but your headlights that turned sharply to the right.
And then a blow to the cheek. Strong, biting, cruel. And I saw you all in front of me, silently and frightened looking at me. I said "It's okay" and sank heavily on the sand of this road under construction. Then I had a glass with something in my hands, which I drank without even noticing, and then a cigarette in my cramped jaws. Blue flashing lights, people in uniform, the smell of drugs, an injection in the vein ... "Everything is fine," I said and left the ambulance. "It's okay" - I threw over my shoulder and went into the night. I don’t know who was following me, protecting me from something. I don’t know who then gave me vodka to drink and tried to squeeze tears out of me. I don’t know who drove me home, because everything was fine.
S., I went outside for a long time in the evening at the time when you used to drive up. I asked the guys why you didn’t come, they answered that you had gone to the city on business and would not return soon. I resented you because you didn't say a word to me, you didn't even hand over the note. And then, by the fire, I tried to fill the void with vodka, which suddenly inflated with a balloon somewhere under the sternum.
And then I suddenly realized that you will never, you hear, NEVER come again. You will never again ruffle my hair with your nose and whisper to me…. You fooled me, you fooled all of us. You took our childhood from us, and then you took all of us in turn. One by one, one by one. They left after you. You must be fine there. You cut through the air of your worlds with roaring motorcycles and also gather around the fire at night, but without me….
But I didn't recognize you by name. But you don't have to. I want to tell you that I hate you because you completely killed my trust in people, outraged my grief, raped me in the field and left me torn to pieces. I vaguely remember your six backs cowardly running away from me into the predawn dampness. Who knows, maybe I would have come to life after the death of S., but you did not give me such an opportunity. As soon as I cut my veins, ate pills, tried to hang myself and jump off the roof, I realized that there was a person nearby who patiently nursed me like a blind kitten. Dear L., I bow at your feet. Thank you for infecting me with life, so mortally ill with life. Then, in that nightmare of alcohol and death, you led me to the light. But let me ask you - why did you leave so absurdly? What is it - fate or its mockery? Who slipped you that damn parachute that killed you on the ground without opening? Have you really escaped death on the field of the misunderstood Chechen war, so that you can go home like this? Or was it all right, who knows ... Could you live on, mangled by death and the cinder of the frenzy of battle?
And then there were a lot of you, you, with whom I twisted as I wanted. Those who knelt before me, those who crawled at my feet because I wanted to. And I laughed at you. Leading by the nose and from time to time scratching with claws so that you do not have the strength to run away and hide. And then boredom set in. And I wanted to get rid of her.
And I met you, P. and N. You, looking somewhere through houses and people, you living in your own world. And I said, I want too. You tried to dissuade me, you talked about yourself, about breakdowns, about deaths, but all in vain. And you helped me the first time, after which I didn't need your help for almost a year. During this time, I realized that this is not an option. This is a dead end. And, saying “Everything is fine,” I began to climb down the shaky ladder from the top, breaking down from terrible pain, but then clinging to the next step, clinging my teeth to the remnants of willpower, and even dragging P. and K., because N . did not follow us, but died like a dog in a pissed front door, clutching my photograph in his fist. I want to thank you all for being there, for coming with me, for the fact that you now have cheerful children.
And so I stopped to look around. And I realized that I have no one. That soon I would finish school, go to college, and then I would probably like to have a family ... but I did not know how to be affectionate with men. I'm not used to this, so I started to adjust them for myself. They followed mine, but after a while I realized that they were not the same. I want to thank you, A., and apologize for the evening when you and I came to the disco, where I approached you and said - "free!". Because you were sitting in my front door with your hands reddened from the cold, hiding in your bosom and trying to warm a lonely white rose. For that, I passed by you, taking it with me.
I want to thank you, S., for walking around the city in the evenings, holding hands, for taking me to concerts, to skiing, to performances, to parties. I want to thank you more for making me suddenly feel at ease with you. I didn’t have to build someone out of myself, I began to become myself, not the one, of course, which I could be, but still myself. I am grateful to you for being late for our dates, and one time you didn’t come at all, and I was able to take a completely royal walk with two men whom we somehow met in our expectations. That evening, their companions also did not come. And they, thinking, offered me to go with them. And I went. I do not regret that after this walk I returned home drunk to death, with an armful of flowers that did not fit in my hands and was constantly losing something. I don't regret the domestic scandal that happened the next day. I want to say thank you to them, these cheerful Siberian men, who so touchingly looked after a lady who was only 16 years old. Just tell me, S., why did you and I part so strangely? Why only two years later, at a chance meeting, did you tell me how it really was, and until that time, forcing me to suffer with this question, while torturing your sister. And we did not become friends with you, because life eventually scattered us. Sometimes I want to meet you again, as before, after your usual forty-minute delay, and, taking your hand, walk around the evening city.
I remember some. Here is O., three years younger than me, kneeling before me and begging me not to leave, promising to be a good husband who will carry me in his arms. And I stand grabbing the bars of the stall so as not to fall from surprise and I don’t know what to say. Dear O., forgive me for coming to your city then. But I think that now, if you remember that incident, then with a smile. Somewhere right there is E., whom I myself began to seduce, and then I myself left without explaining the reasons. I want to say thank you, my A., A., A., ... funny, right? But it's not my fault that they were all called that - there was such a time. For the fact that you, A., were sitting on my sofa, fingering a bouquet of roses and trying to answer my mother's tricky questions. And to you, A., I want to thank you for my walks around the bay, for the asphalt court and the good game. To you, A., I want to say thank you for the fact that at the graduation party you were somehow nearby, when I felt sad and stoically endured all my tricks.
And then some fleeting, flickering faces. Until I met you, D. It was then that I realized that the ashes of my soul had not cooled down after all. You very carefully fanned a small fire at first, and then kindled it into a flame of passion and love. Almost the same as the first, but already an adult. You became my first man. You showed me the beauty of the mountains and the beauty of the rocks. We made plans for the future, we even wanted to get married ... before I got tired of your unreasonableness in life. You were a player. And you stayed that way. You lost everything that occasionally earned. You didn't know how to work properly. We had nothing to eat. And then I sat with your son at the request of your ex-wife. Oddly enough, but she got married a second time and is quite happy, unlike you and me. Although, I don't know what's wrong with you and where you are. You disappeared from the field of view of acquaintances and friends after I, stepping over myself, said “Everything is fine” and left you completely. She left in order to wander long and painfully through other people's apartments, falling asleep in different beds, until she chose another victim for herself. I didn’t want anything serious, I just wanted to relax next to a calm, complaisant person, so that later I would go out on a search again. But it took too long.
Now I want to thank you, A., for coming to my hospital, bringing broth, flowers, huge apples ... for always being ready to come to me when I feel bad and get drunk with me, or not get drunk . Excuse me for making you fall in love with me, forcing you to wander around many in search of something. Excuse me for being so dabbling so far. But you know that everything was decided a long time ago with you.
And to you, S .. I want to say the following. Forgive me for what I did meanly to you, hooking my teeth on you so as not to return to D., but there was no one else suitable nearby. I'm sorry that I still don't let you go, holding you on a leash. I'm sorry for our unborn three children. For my sprees, departures, returns. But you're not chasing me either. You say you love But you said it too late. Too late to be able to build anything. You and I are like neighbors in a communal flat. We tolerate each other, but we cannot part. You know that I met V., that I need him. But you know that I can’t do anything with him at all - just chat, laugh. And nothing will work. I thank you and ask your forgiveness for tormenting you with my greed and some unexpected indecision.
V., my good V. And why did you tame me? Then, to then be afraid of himself and me? I do not understand. I need you today, as I needed you yesterday and the day before. I have not seen you for a long time. Often I pass by your house and I'm afraid to go in, what if you're not happy with me? V., I want everything in your life to work out, so that you forget me someday, if you haven’t forgotten already. I want you to finally pull yourself together and tell me everything you want to say. Everything from start to finish! But you won't be able to tell me anything. And you will curse yourself for your silence, you will go into a binge and perform an incredible number of stupid feats. I know this because you and I are very much alike...too much alike, too. This, apparently, is driving us apart ... I want to thank you for those rare moments of comfort and tranquility next to you. And I want to ask - do you really not bring me a single flower to the grave? Probably not…
And yet, before I forget, I want to say a special THANK YOU to you, A. To you, for the fact that on that train you suddenly woke me from hibernation. For that. That I understood what crazy love is. For our synchronous silence, for our one-word beginning phrases and simultaneous questions. For reading each other's minds. For those eight hours that I knew you. From the heart! Thank you for the fact that I wanted to find you, but I couldn’t, because apart from your name I didn’t know anything, I didn’t even remember the city. For the fact that I didn’t need it, because we had to definitely meet and parted at the station for several hours ... but it turned out that for many years. And now and forever.
And to you, V., who carefully loves me for at least some short time, because from another city and with his own problems.
And to you, A., who lives on the sea, you who said that I come and go like a hurricane, leaving nothing behind but emptiness ....
And to you, V., my dear young V., whose ponytail I spent two weeks, and then you turned around, and he was not there ...
And to you, P., silently adoring me.
And to you, I., who is afraid of me and burning with the desire to possess my body.
And many, many others…. Thank you for being in my life and forgive me for being in your life.
Everything is fine…..
Everything is fine...

Of course, I could start with the words "When you read these words, I will no longer be alive ... I ask you not to blame anyone for my death ... I'm sorry for everything," but you know me, I never liked clichés. So where do I start... It's hard for me to tell you this, but I've never loved life. Well, except in childhood. But after all, in childhood, we generally love everything in a row - dogs, soap bubbles, ice cream, cartoons, life. And I loved. And then it kind of ended. Gradually, and then suddenly. You know, it's like recovery. Every day it gets easier and easier for you, and one day you wake up and understand that you are finally and irrevocably healthy. It's the same here, just the other way around. Such an inversion.
So, one day it happened. I woke up and realized - fell out of love with life. Why? Because I didn't love it. Nothing about her attracted me. It did not give strength, emotions, the heart never beat anxiously, the pulse did not quicken. Nothing like what is written in books and shown in films has never happened to me. Of course, you will say that I am too young to say that, only twenty-seven. But have I not experienced the best years of my life? Will it be better up there? There, an ulcer, rheumatism, impotence, and other joys of a mature life await me. Do you think they will help me love life? Unlikely.
Whether I'm gifted with some kind of talent is another matter. Would benefit humanity, they would erect a monument to me, they would name the street in my honor. Then I would have suffered, so be it, for another thirty years. But not fate. Not gifted. That's not the problem. The problem is, I don't want anything. You know, nothing at all. I don't want a career, I don't want a family, I don't want children. I kept thinking, someday it will dawn on me, an insight will descend, so to speak. I thought that something would appear in my life that would awaken this notorious thirst for life. It didn't work, I got tired of waiting. You know I've always been impatient.
At first I just wanted not to be born. It would be perfect. I had a real dream for the first time. I dreamed that on that November night twenty-seven years ago you and dad would not meet, get to know each other, and talk. So that the act of intercourse, as a result of which I appeared in my person, did not happen. But my only dream turned out to be hopelessly unrealizable.
Two things separated me from suicide. The first is fear. Nobody canceled the instinct of self-preservation. Pain, death throes, agony - all this, of course, frightened me. I decided to practice. Remember, we watched some movie, and there the maniac slashed the main character's inner thigh with a razor, motivating this by the fact that it hurts the most there. I decided to try, especially since no one will notice the traces. These are not veins. So, it turned out that I had a high pain threshold, I felt almost nothing. I experimented with a knife with notches, also nothing, tolerable. The pain didn't scare me anymore.
The second fact, mother, was you. You are the only thing I loved, appreciated. The only thing that kept me alive. I couldn't, I just couldn't hit you like that. Because you have no one but me. I was your meaning, your life. To lose me would be worse for you than death. That's why I went into your room tonight. Covered your face with a pillow. I also saw this in a movie. I don't know, maybe you didn't even wake up. You probably didn't suffer for long. I leaned my whole body on the pillow and lay like that, just in case, for about twenty minutes, just to be sure. Everything worked out.
And, you know, something amazing happened. I felt alive! One hundred percent alive. I felt the blood pulsing in my veins, the air eagerly rushing into my lungs, I felt every cell of my numb limbs. I felt freedom, boundless, all-encompassing freedom, which was bursting me from the inside. It was better than ice cream, better than bubbles, kisses, first sex, better than morning cigarettes, Jack Daniels, marijuana and cocaine combined. And you know, I changed my mind about dying.