TRIGGER WARNING: This article contains information about suicide, suicide survivors, and violence which may be triggering.

This is a rewrite of a previous article titled, "The Morning After I Killed Myself" by Meggie Royer.

The morning after I killed myself

My parents walked into my empty room, bed still unmade and my outfit from the night before crumpled on the floor. I had pillows piled up and a blanket pushed to the foot of my bed. I had just so recently been there. They had an envelope in their hand that read congratulations. I had gotten into Grad School. They were eagerly waiting with anticipation for me to open it.

But I didn’t.

The morning after I killed myself

My sisters sat side by side in little black dresses. They stared at the TV in silence, aimlessly not paying attention to the story. Instead of fighting over who would wear Mommy’s bracelet, they held hands and gave the bracelet to me. They expected me to put it on myself.

But I didn’t.

The morning after I killed myself

My cat was less active than normal. His toy laid dormant on the living room floor. He hadn’t woken anyone up at 4 a.m. with his nose pushing into our faces. It’s like he knew something was wrong. He sat on my spot in the bed, waiting for me to come and cuddle him for comfort for whatever was wrong with everyone.

But I didn’t.

The morning after I killed myself

My boyfriend was curled up in his bean bag chair, his eyes bloodshot and red. He hadn’t been to sleep. He heard the alarm go off at 8:30 a.m. and mindlessly turned it off, walking into the kitchen. He cooked the same breakfast we always had: 3 eggs, a bit of cheese and a tortilla wrap. He placed it on my nightstand, where I was suppose to reach over and grab it, like always, and give him a kiss.

But I didn’t.

The morning after I killed myself

My best friend was wrapped in her mother’s arms, where she had finally cried herself to sleep. Her eyes were stained with tears. She finally sprung up from her slumber and grabbed her phone. She shot me the same text as always, “Yoo Hoo…” expecting me to text back, “Big Summer Blow Out.”

But I didn’t.

The morning after I killed myself

My sorority family met for a meal, like they always did once a week. They all looked like a Sunday morning sorority girl: their hair disheveled, make-up smeared and oversized t-shirts being the outfit of choice. All of them looked as if they had been hit over the head with hammers. They waited for me to comfort them as the "mom" of the group.

But I didn’t.

The morning after I killed myself

I walked through these people’s lives as a ghost. My face was ashen with my own tears. My mind was filled with questions and wonders. For the first time in forever, I wondered why. As I walked through the lives of these people that meant the most to me, I hugged each one of them with my paper thin spirit arms. I expected to comfort them…

But I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

Suicide is final, concise, and painful to everyone around you… You cannot say people will continue on, people will be comforted by others, or people will learn to live without you.

The morning after I killed myself, I am so thankful that I woke up and realized it was just a terrible dream...