“How the hell did he decapitate himself with a plastic knife??” I thought to myself as I stared at the ghastly scene before me. My son’s lifeless body lay in a pool of his own blood, a plastic knife still clasped in his hand. I had come home from work to find him in this state, and I was filled with shock and grief.
It had been a difficult few months for my son. He had been struggling with depression and his mental health had been deteriorating rapidly. I had tried my best to help him, but it seemed like nothing I did was enough. I had even taken him to see a therapist, but his mental state only seemed to worsen.
The last time I had seen my son, he had seemed so lost and helpless. He had begged me to help him, but I had no idea what to do. I had promised him that I would do whatever I could to make things better, but now it was too late.
I had failed him.
My eyes filled with tears as I read the note my son had left behind. He had written about his despair and his overwhelming sense of helplessness. He had begged for someone to help him, but in the end, he had chosen to take his own life.
I felt a deep sense of guilt and regret, wishing that I had done more for my son. I wished that I had been able to help him before it was too late. Instead, he had chosen to end his suffering in the most horrific way possible.
I knew that nothing could ever bring my son back, but I vowed to do whatever I could to help others who were struggling with depression. I wanted to make sure that no one else would ever have to suffer like my son had.