‘I’m tired’: Michael Sona on robocalls, his suicide attempt — and the road back
It seemed like a good day to die.
It was the spring of 2012, and Michael Sona could see no other way out. Alone in his Ottawa apartment, he loaded up the magazine of his .45 calibre pistol with ten rounds — noting to himself the absurdity of the act.
“I just needed one. But you do weird stuff almost reflexively when you’re in that state of mind.”
There was the matter of last words, as there usually is when a desperate person decides to crash out by his own hand. Sona was overwhelmed by the enormity of his decision, thinking at first that it called for a lengthy missive. After all, he had to explain his actions to those he was leaving behind. In the end, the suicide note he placed on his kitchen counter read more like an epigram: “I’m not guilty, but I’m tired.”
It was all the 23 year-old had to say. Sona went into the bathroom and sat in the tub. He snapped the magazine home and chambered a round. The Hamlet moment had arrived — to be, or not to be.
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