September 28, 2003.

My wife Tatsumi Saki passed away.

June 17, 2001.

My colleague and editor, Aoyama Masaaki, arguably one of Japan’s best subculture writers, passed away.

May 10, 1998

Nekojiru, a colleague and friend of mine, a unique manga artist with a passionate fanbase, passed away.

What they have in common is that they were all irreplaceable to me.

They were moody, but very charming with incredible talent.

And then…

They killed themselves.

There are currently over 34,000 suicides in Japan each year.

The sadness of 34,000 people alone isn’t what drives them.

The sadness compounds. Suicide brings the death of parents, siblings, lovers, friends and coworkers.

The number of deaths grows into a circle of tragedy that reaches 300,000, 500,000, even over a million people. I found that the only way to heal from this was to write.

Rather than simply wallowing in my sadness, I had to make it meaningful, somehow. Otherwise, I’d drown in it and there would be no hope of salvation. I’d never be able to escape from it. In short, suicide isn’t pretty.

Anyhow, I just want to get what happened to me out of my system. The shock I’ve endured will drive me crazy otherwise. My mind is already crumbling. I want writing to act as the shock therapy I need to bring me back to my senses. My wife will never come back. I’ll never see her again. I can’t accept that! It’s impossible. That’s why I write.

Do people who commit suicide not think of the damage it will cause to those around them? Are they overwhelmed by their own pain?

It must have been excruciatingly painful. But my wife and Nekojiru died out of pride.

I feel that way, at times.

“Dying out of pride”—it may seem noble at first glance, but it’s the most selfish act ever. They probably believed dying to be easier than living. They probably wanted to be at peace.

Right now I feel so sad and alone, to the point of madness.

I wonder if my wife Saki would understand my pain.

Living may be harder than dying.

But I’m going to live.

Dying is like running away.

Most people don’t. They instead desperately survive in this cruel world.

Will death really make things easier? I doubt it. No one knows what the afterlife holds. What’s clear, though, is that they will never again be able to come into contact with myself and the living. Some people may claim they have the right to die. I don’t reject such notions.

But I hope that people who feel like they want to die will reconsider.

That’s why I’m writing this book. From pure emotion, not logic.

In these times, relying too much on logic can make you pessimistic, so I want to advocate for “living with emotion.”

Because losing someone to death is true suffering.

Don’t you agree, Saki? I’m in so much pain I could die. You were a kind person, weren’t you? You understand my pain.

The dead never come back.

Death is irreversible.

There’s nothing I can do.

Yet I can’t come to terms with it. So…

I will write honestly about the truth behind suicide and the grief and regret of those left behind.

Rather than exploring the reasons someone may kill themselves, I will consider suicide from the perspective of the widowed—the one left behind among the living.

So that there will never be more people like myself, who have been “suicided.”

Writing is all I have left in this life.