A Breathless Place

The Letter

Not being able to sing any longer is not a terminal illness. It’s not like cancer or any other physical disease that, ultimately, causes your heart to stop beating. But you have to understand that not being able to use my singing voice to express myself for such a long time, has felt like a long, slow death. Maybe it’s wrong to liken it to a terminal illness, but that’s how it seemed. Like a part of me was dying all along. And that being the case, then why shouldn’t I die? The truth is I feel like I don’t have much left to live for. Please don’t take this personally—although there’s no way you won’t. You must know I love and care for you deeply. But that doesn’t mean I should extend my life for you.

I know all of this is one big taboo, and I’ve done my best so you don’t have to deal with the fallout of this too much. I’ve taken everything into consideration. Everything I could possibly think of. Every probable scenario and every potential question that might pop up. I’ve left clear and detailed instructions for what needs to happen after my death—when you read this. Of course, you’ll be sad. That’s normal. You might even be heartbroken for a while. I’m sorry to have to put you through this. But always remember: I wanted this. I was not someone with decades of life left in me. I didn’t have an enormous quantity of joy left inside me to be experienced—to be unearthed. In fact, the biggest joy I experienced in the past few years was when I was putting together this plan. The plan for my death. The relief was instant. Not that I haven’t had doubts. Of course I have. Which is why I made myself take the time to truly think it over, to come at it from every possible angle. To make sure you know this was not a rash decision.