This is it.

I look at the piece of paper I’m holding in front of me. I read the words, for the seventh time, just to make sure that I haven’t missed any error. I’m usually not this meticulous about this stuff but I thought I might as well be for this one.

I’m quite satisfied by the letter, I must say. I never thought that I could sum it up so poignantly or poetically. I’m feeling rather accomplished. And the handwriting isn’t bad either. I actually like the way the letters look on that piece of paper. I never really liked my handwriting. But this time I do. It looks…something. I don’t really want to sit here and think of the word for it.

I look at my apartment from where I’m sitting. A lot of books and magazines and CDs and other miscellaneous stuff lying around. I guess I’m a hoarder. I must say though, it doesn’t look as messy as one would think it should with all that stuff around. It looks more like…something something something. Words! Where are they?

I always thought that in this moment, I would suddenly become poetic and word-wise and that I would be able to come up with beautiful phrasings to give this occasion a more poignant feel.

But obviously I haven’t.

As I sit here, taking all this in…I want to mention that I love the blue of my walls. They came with the apartment. They are the reason why I wanted the apartment.

You know, I didn’t think I would be feeling like this at this moment.

I thought that I would feel heavier. Weighed down by the gravity of the situation.

But I feel surprisingly light. Which makes me sad. I should feel heavier. I should.

After all, it’s been this pressing weight that’s propelled me towards this moment.

I’ve been trying to explain this feeling to people. Lots of people. But I couldn’t.

I still can’t. But it’s there. It’s here, inside of me.

And just because I can’t define something, doesn’t mean it’s not real.

I’ve heard other people talk about this. I’ve heard other people try to explain what this is. They have failed too. And I know that they also think that they have failed to do so. And I also know that, even though they think they have failed to explain this thing to people on terms they could relate in, they know that it’s real.

Even in this moment I’m trying to find the words, any words that could at least hint at what this is.

A part of me knows that I shouldn’t be doing this. I should listen to this part.

But instead I have decided to listen to that other part of me. The one that’s been worrying me all my life.

I believe that I am a good person. I really do.

But I have always known that if I allow myself, I could go into some really dark territory.

But because I knew I was a good person and because I knew that this other part of me was something I would want to stay away from, I felt safe. If I worried about it, it wouldn’t happen.

Then one day, I stopped caring about worrying. And this is how, in abbreviated form, I ended up here, at this moment.

I’m too tired to go into details. I don’t feel like they matter. I just want to do this.

But I’m still marveling at the lightness I’m feeling.

It’s almost like I’m feeling…excited about this. Strange.

I suppose it has something to do with the fact that I have never done this before, so it’s a new experience for me. I’ve always been the kind of person who felt excited about new things.

Although, I didn’t think I would feel excited about this.

Like I said, I rather thought that I would feel more…something. Damn it! Words won’t come!

This is so not the dramatic mood I thought I would be in. Maybe we’re never as dramatic as we think we would like to be.

I just thought that I owed it to this occasion to be dramatic and broody and generally low.

Gravity. Bringing me down since the day I was born!

Right. Let me just get on with this.

I fold the piece of paper, put it in an envelope on where I’ve written “Read Me.”

I stand up and walk towards the small desk I have near my door. Among the various items, note pads, ribbons, gloves, scarves, pens, receipts, is my phone.

I check if the voicemail light is blinking. It isn’t. I smile wistfully. And oddly pleased.

I prop the envelope against the phone. Then I look up and into the mirror that’s hanging on the wall.

I look at my face, bare of makeup. Two ordinary brown eyes looking back at me. They look tired. I feel tired.

I turn around to take a look at my apartment. I don’t linger too long on anything.

I unlock the door, open it, turn off the lights and step out.

I close the door, leaving the keys inside.

I walk towards the flight of stairs. Behind the door on my left, which goes into the apartment next to mine, lives a nice young man. He moved in about three months ago.

I remember that day. Mostly because of the piano.

I saw the piano first. Then I saw him. He smiled at me and said “Hello.”

I smiled at him and said “Hello.”

Then he extended his hand and said “I’m Nathaniel.”

And I took his hand and said “I’m Riane.”

There were more words exchanged, but I can’t say he and I have talked much in all the months since he’s moved in, only the occasional greeting.

But I have heard him play his piano.

For a moment I actually consider walking down to the other end of the hall and taking the elevator. But that wouldn’t be fitting to the occasion.

I take the stairs. It is seven flights up.

I’ve been told to exercise more. I’m breathing a little bit harder and my heart rate has gone up. I can certainly appreciate the irony. I wish I could share it with someone.

Have you had the situation in where something has happened to you that’s just cheekily ironic and you come up with some witty thing to say to point out the irony and you wish you had someone there with you so you could tell them that witty remark?

I have those moments all the time. I think I’m a clever and witty person, other people just don’t know about it because they’re never around when I’m being clever and witty.

And so I reserve all my best material for that internal dialogue I keep going inside my head.

I used to deny to myself the fact that I was lonely. I used to say that I’m alone but not lonely.

But there’s no point in denying it now. I am alone and lonely. Partly because of my own fault.

I have always been a loner. Even as a child.

I am not an only child. I have a younger brother. And our age gap isn’t so wide that he and I would be of an entirely different generation. And it’s not as we don’t like each other. We’ve always had a quite good relationship. But he has always been the one who was good at making friends and I was the one sitting in my room reading my books.

And it’s not that I’m painfully shy. Yes, I’m shy, but not in a debilitating manner. And it’s not like I don’t have any sort of conversation. In fact, I have been told by many people of my acquaintance that they’re really surprised at how loquacious I can be at times. And when I feel like it, I can even be the life of the party. And I am quite comfortable in that role.

But at the end of the day, I still prefer to be by myself. For that reason I have strange a relationship with my friends.

I often feel disconnected. Like something in me isn’t getting it. That something in me is preventing me from forming the kind of relationship with other people that you read about in books or see in movies. You know the ones, where they hug and share all their feelings and then hug some more.

That’s not me. I’m not a hugger. And I’m definitely not a feeling-sharer. Unless I’m absolutely required to. And even then, I won’t admit to all of my feelings.

Which is why, until now, I’ve haven’t had a proper boyfriend. I haven’t even had an improper one.

No, I’m not a virgin. But I might as well be one.

I’ve had moments when I wished that I was someone else. But that I’m-a-person-of-value-and-I-love-myself-for-who-I-am part of me would quickly gather its pickets and start protesting that wish.

Do not tell me that I’m just feeling confused. I know that I’m feeling confused. I don’t feel just confused. This is not just confusion.

And I’m even capable of recognizing the fact that I am not the only person who is feeling this way. I know that other people feel this way. I’m not the only one. I’m not. I’ve met those other people. Well, at least some of them. So see? I know I’m not the only one.

But it feels like it. It feels like that I’m the only one who feels like this. And not to be too philosophical about this, but I am the only one who feels like this. Exactly like the way I am feeling now. Because I am the only one who can feel the way I do in the way I do.

And what I am feeling is something I cannot put into words. Words that could express, define, capture exactly the way I am feeling.

I think I have gone over this before.

It’s only one more flight up and I’m there. I need to take a little break. To catch my breath.

Ha-ha. Another one of those moments. I sometimes wonder if I might be a little bit too much enamored of irony.

Alright. I’m ready. I wonder how many steps there are?

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. This is stupid.

Counting steps is stupid. It’s not like it’s going to matter, is it?

It’s not like it’s going to be the answer to a trivia question.

Okay. I’m at the door now and I push it open and I step out unto the roof.

I’m not wearing any shoes. I suppose I’ve always wanted to do this barefooted.

I wish I could say it’s one of those glorious moonlit nights, where everything is bathed in this magical light. It’s not.

The moon’s just a tiny slice of yellow.

The sky is surprisingly clear. I wish I could see more stars.

I think a starry night sky would be an appropriately beautiful image to have just before I…fuck, I just stubbed my toe on something! I look down and I see a brick lying there.

I hop around a bit, as if that would help with the pain, but then I stop, because just as with the counting of the steps, it’s stupid. It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.

I honestly must say, that I am a little bit surprised at how unhesitant I am about this. That nothing in me has stopped me yet from doing this.

I am quite determined to do this. I have never been so determined to do anything in my life.

Which is quite sad, really.

But here I am. One-hundred percent willing to do this. And I am going to do this.

I am climbing unto the ledge and I’m standing up and I’m taking a look around.

Not that this matters, but all my life I’ve had a fear of heights.

But here I am, with quite a distance between me and the ground. I look down and I’m not afraid. Not even a tiniest bit.

I am going to do this. I am.

So this is it. This is really it.

Earlier, I was thinking about what song should be playing at this moment. As if this were a scene from a movie and I’m trying to put in score.

I’ve always done this. Played a soundtrack in my head at various moments in my life.

Not that I know that many songs. In fact, I’ve often felt that I don’t know enough songs in order to form an extensive, entertaining and eclectic soundtrack.

But anyway, I did go through my music library earlier. To find that song.

I didn’t find one. But that doesn’t matter anyway. It doesn’t matter.

I think I should say something about the night. About how it feels to stand up here, on the ledge of a tall building, about to do what I am about to do.

I think it should be something poetic and insightful and profound.

I have no words like that.

It’s dark, it’s chilly and I’m getting cold feet. Literally.

I spread my arms to the side, feeling slightly Kate Winslet-Titanic-ish and foolish.

I wonder about this life-flashing-before-me moment. Is that real? Does that really happen? Or is that just some clever invention by some writer?

I mean, I know real life is not like the movies. There aren’t any rose petal moments a la American Beauty. But I sometimes wish, even if it’s silly, that those moments existed in real life.

I will admit this now, because it really doesn’t matter now does it, I will admit that sometimes I imagine myself walking or moving in slow motion. Just for the dramatic effect.

I am up here for a reason. It might make no sense to anyone else. Yes, I have felt guilt about what I am about to do.

I was baptized Roman Catholic. They have specific rules about this. And then there’s my family. My mother. My father. My brother. They won’t understand.

They will think it is their fault. But it isn’t. Not really. But I’ve left that in the letter. I felt it was too much to ask them for forgiveness but I did anyway. I don’t know why. Maybe to make them feel better.

I look down again. It still looks like a long way until the ground.

I’ve always wondered what free-falling feels like. I suppose I could have gone bungee jumping or jumped out a plane with a parachute on to do that. Instead I’m going to find it out here.

I bought the book “101 Things To Do Before You Die”. I threw it away after I read through the list of 101 things to do.

Before I threw it away, I managed to cross off two things that I’ve already done: Win an Award, Trophy or Prize and Learn Another Language.

It’s not a bad book. It’s just that it’s…well, what does it matter now anyway, right?

I’m still really determined to do this.

I don’t want anyone to think that I don’t understand the gravity of this moment. This is not a joke. People have done this before. This is not something to take lightly.

I think it is pointless at this moment to try to explain why I am doing this. No one will understand. People will probably say that I’ve been stupid. Or selfish. Or stupidly selfish.

I have been one of those people. But right now, at this moment, I don’t care.

They won’t understand. But I don’t care. I just don’t care anymore. I don’t.

I lift my right foot and I’m ready to take that step.

There’s no need for last words. No one will hear them.

I shift my weight and I smile. I take that step.

I haven’t noticed how quiet the night is.

I’m standing on the roof, safely off the ledge and I’m noticing how quiet the night is.

I’m standing on the roof.

I feel…cold. Literally and metaphorically.

I shouldn’t have bothered with dinner. I can feel it come back up.

I take deep breaths with my eyes closed, willing the nausea to go away.

It doesn’t.

I’m glad that it’s dark and I can’t see my vomit.

And now I’m crying.

I feel so lost and alone and lonely at the moment I just want to hurl myself off the building. Again.

Instead, I keep on crying like an idiot.

My heart is breaking. This is not who I want to be. This is not who I want to be.

I sit down on the ground, next to the puddle of vomit, but I don’t care about that. I’m not crying anymore. Not much anyway.

I rub my head. I feel a migraine coming on. I don’t think I mind that.

I sit here, getting colder by the second but I don’t move.

I am unhappy. Not about the not jumping off the building part.

I’m unhappy about lots of things. But mostly I’m unhappy with myself. I’m sitting here and I feel that unhappiness settle around me like a cloak. That heavy feeling I was looking for earlier? It’s here now.

And I realize that the reason why I was so determined, so sure that I was going to jump, was that I knew I wasn’t going to jump.

This will make no sense to anyone else. It makes perfect sense to me.

This is my rock bottom. I don’t like how it sounds. Cheesy. But it’s my rock bottom.

I’ve been having this self-pity party for months now. And almost killing myself is the jolt I needed to get me out of that.

And I need to start on some kind of therapy. I refuse to be this unhappy any longer.

I’m scared. I’m truly scared now. This is not going to be easy. This is going to require more of me that I even think I have. But I have to do it. I just have to.

Because I’m not the kind of person who takes that step forward off the ledge. I don’t want to be that person.

And I’m cold and I’m tired and I want to go to bed.

I walk towards the door and I’m feeling numb.

I look down the stairs. One flight down and I could take the elevator. But I could need the exercise. It matters now.

I know this is irreverent and very disrespectful really but what do you say to a suicidal person who has just tried to kill herself but failed? Better luck next time?

I’ll probably feel low and depressed when I wake up in the morning. I’m not looking forward to that.

But hey, good times are going to come, right?

The word is graceful. I was looking for the word graceful to describe the handwriting on the note. Graceful with just a touch of girlishness. Yes. That’s how it looks.

Oh my god, I am such a shallow person! I am such a drama queen! This was my cry for attention. I am so pathetic. This is just pathetic.

And disgusting. I should be on medication. I shouldn’t be allowed on the streets.

Am I manic-depressive?

I don’t think so. Am I in denial? People who say they aren’t in denial are in the denial about being in denial.

This is conceit isn’t it? This is just fucking conceit. And self-pity. Booo-hooo, my life is a mess, people feel sorry for me.

But it isn’t really a mess, is it? I have a pretty good life.

Sure I haven’t felt that way lately, but everyone gets a little blue sometimes.

Although what I’ve been feeling lately isn’t just being blue, it’s…bluer than just being blue.

I really do need therapy.

What person in her right mind goes up to the roof top to kill herself without having the real intention to kill herself?

I am disgusted with myself. I’m really disgusted with myself. I thought I was better than this. I’m a good person.

I am a good person.

I can still taste the vomit in my mouth. It’s disgusting.

I am angry at myself. I am really angry at myself.

I’ve always been one of those people who are sensible and rational in the face of emotion.

I’ve always been boring.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? I’m boring and I’m bored and I’m tired of being boring and bored.

And so I go up to the roof, with the intention of killing myself without killing myself, to get me out of this boredom. Just for the thrill of it. To get some excitement in my life. Because that’s the problem with me, isn’t it? I am a drama queen, but my life is no drama.

My life is run of the mill, ordinary, nothing special. I’ve been living in a fantasy world. All these years spent reading books, I thought that life should be like in the books. Life should be fun and dramatic and exciting and it should sweep you off your feet and make you feel like…woops, missed a step.

I should pay more attention to going down the stairs.

I should pay more attention to my life. Because real life is not like in the books. Or in the movies.

Real life is plain toast. It’s your job to bring the butter and the other stuff.

I haven’t done that. And that’s what I should do. Bring the butter into my life.

I have to take chances. I have to stop living inside my head and start living in my life.

I’m starting to sound like one of those feel-good self help slash inspirational books. I don’t like those books.

So I’m shallow, conceited, cowardly and cynical. Right.

I’m going to change. I’m going to become the person I want to be.

That person is happy, positive and at ease with herself.

That’s going to be me. Yes, happy, positive and at ease with myself.

And I’m going to start doing stuff. So I can say I did stuff. I don’t want to be boring. I don’t want to live a boring life. I want to live. I want to really live.

And how inconsistent am I? Earlier I was urging myself on to end my life and now I’m here giving myself a pep talk? This is unreal.

Actually, this is so me. It is.

All my life, I’ve been telling myself that I’m going to do things and I get really excited and eager to it and then I don’t. And I don’t care that I’ve changed my mind.

This has to stop. I need to follow through with things.

Okay, so I’m glad that I haven’t gone through with the jumping off the building thing. Come on.

But I need to start doing the things I say I’m going to do.

I should stop making lists and not sticking to them.

Maybe I should buy another copy of “101 Things To Do Before You Die.”

Maybe not. Maybe I should come up with my own list.

Yes, my own list. Now that’s an idea.

I’m standing in front of my door.

Once I step through that door, I’m going to live a new life. A life of purpose and meaning.

And I’m so full of shit that I’m smiling at myself. I can’t help it, can I? I still need to make a drama about everything.

But this is a momentous occasion. This is me standing between the old me and the new me. I should mourn the unhappy existence that I’ve lead. I should pause for a second and just wallow in the delicious misery.

I think that’s a line from “Elizabethtown.” No wait, I think it was in the glorious melancholy. Something like that.

Oh my god, I am so full of shit! I am.

What? Do I think that when I step into my apartment, everything is going to be magically different? That somehow my life is just going to change?

It’s going to take work. And commitment. And work.

It’s going to be hard. I don’t think that I really grasp how hard it’s going to be. I think it’s going to be really hard. And I’ll need to make a real effort.

This is scary. I can’t do this on my own. I need help. I do. I really do.

And I need to learn how to ask for help. Because that’s one of my problems, isn’t it? I don’t know how to ask for help.

I need therapy. I’m definitely getting therapy.

I feel like I can do this. I can do this. Yes I can. I can do this.

I just hope that I feel the same way when I wake up in the morning.

I reach for the doorknob and I hear the elevator doors open.

I look to see who it is.

It’s Nathaniel. He’s walking towards me. I know he’s walking towards his door, but he has to walk by me to get to his door.

“Hello,” he says. He gives me an odd look.

I realize that I’m standing barefoot in a flannel nightgown, with my face probably looking red and puffy from all the crying.

I feel cringing embarrassment. But I’m not moving. I’m just standing there. Looking at him.

Okay, I’m actually looking at the T-shirt he’s wearing under his jacket. It’s Schroeder with his toy piano.

I’ve always felt a bit like Charlie Brown.

I look up at his face and we’re just standing there. Something occurs to me. I finally remember something.

“Were you in a band called The Green Toms?” I ask him.

He looks surprised. And I honestly think I should just disappear into my apartment. And maybe move to another place.

But I keep standing here.

“That was years ago,” he says.

I smile. I knew it! I knew it!

“Don’t ask me why,” I say.

He cocks his head to the side, “Is that a statement or do you mean the song?”

Oh god I can’t shut up but I’m singing, “I don’t have all the reasons, so don’t ask me why because I don’t know either, I don’t know either…”

Now he’s looking at me with a…bemused smile on his face. And it looks like he’s blushing.

“I’m sorry. I’m embarrassing myself,” I say. Because that’s what I’m doing.

He shakes his head, “No.”

There’s an almost self-deprecating look on his face, “It’s just…I didn’t think anyone remembered.”

“I lead a sad pathetic life,” I say. I do lead a sad pathetic life. I feel like crying again.

“Are you alright?” he asks me. There’s a concerned look on his face. It makes me want to cry even more.

I’m sad and I’m embarrassed and I’m tired and I can still taste the vomit at the back of my throat.

I give him a tiny shrug. I open my door and step inside my apartment.

He’s still standing there, looking at me.

“I like your T-shirt,” I say. I give him a smile and then I close my door.

As a reflex, I look at my phone to check for voicemail. The envelope is still there, right where I left it.

I walk towards my bathroom and take off the nightgown I’m wearing. I drop it on the floor.

I slide my panties down my legs and step out of them.

I brush my teeth. Twice. Then I violently throw mouthwash around my mouth.

I take a shower.

I smell like green tea and lime now. I wrap a towel around my head and around my body.

I leave the clothes on the floor and I go to my bedroom.

I put on a pair of plain white cotton panties and one of my night T-shirts.

I leave the wet towels on the floor and climb into bed. I don’t care about the wet hair.

I reach to set my alarm but then why bother. It’s Saturday tomorrow.

This is just one of those long, lonely Friday nights.

It was written at about 00:23 am in the morning, Saturday 19 August 2006. I’m currently writing more chapters. I want to find out what happens. I hope you do, too.