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.

I, Yoshinaga Yoshiaki, am a freelance writer and editor.

Due to the devastation caused by my wife’s death, I haven’t touched writing and I’m struggling to make ends meet. Desperate, I work part-time, three days a week, at a local convenience store.

The store is run by a married couple. All the employees are part-timers in their twenties.

During my interview, I said frankly, “I’m an aspiring writer, but I can’t make a living just writing these days.”

I wanted to make it clear that working at the store isn’t my main job.

“My primary job is writing, afterall…”

Thankfully, the store owner hired me.

“You’re a college graduate.” the owner said after reviewing my resume.

I was the only one there with a college degree.

I settled on a part-time schedule at the convenience store and gave my editors as much notice as possible. They were considerate enough to let me cancel my freelance contract for the time being.

I worked eight hours a day, from 8:00am to 5:00pm, excluding breaks. It was my first time dealing with customers and working a cash register.

The owner told me to refrain from wearing flashy clothes while on shift.

I don’t usually wear particularly garish clothes; I tend to dress modestly, so even though I’d made a living as a freelancer, the restrictions didn’t bother me.

There was one thing, however, that I couldn’t compromise on.

“Can’t you do something about that hair?”

I don’t care for my hair being long, but my late wife did.

Saki liked when I grew it out. When it got hot and I tried to cut it, she’d say, “Don’t cut it. You look better with it long.”

After Saki passed away, I realized something.

There were many ways in which I was still trying to court her.

Even after she passed away, I continued to do the things she loved.

The reason I decided to write memoirs again was because Saki had told me this while she was alive:

“You should work harder and harder. You’re not the intellectual type. You have intuition and sensitivity; you’re a ‘right-brained’ person. Use that to your advantage. I believe in your individuality.”

Saki, who gave me this advice, was left-brained.

She was the kind of girl that worked hard, studied hard, always came up on top and made her peers look foolish in comparison. She only took interest in those who had something she didn’t.

I’m right-brained. I’m used to seeing things visually, and I have a well-developed ear for music. These are things the brilliant Saki lacked, which was precisely why she was drawn to me. Once we got together, Saki, who liked my right-brainedness, began to complain that my left-brained, rational sensibilities weren’t as dominant.

“Why can’t you be a little more normal?”

Saki was tolerant of my extreme personality at work, but would criticize me in everyday life.

When she began to complain, I’d reply, “You fell in love with me because I’m not normal. I wish you’d just accept it.”

“You have to be normal, after all.”

––Now that I think about it, Saki and I had a codependent relationship. We clashed, yet were attracted to each other.

It worked out well for us. At least, I thought it did.

She always spoke about me like this:

“You have ADHD (attention deficit hyperactivity disorder), depression, hay fever, atopic dermatitis, chemical sensitivities, and an autonomic nervous system disorder, making you extremely sensitive and easily damaged. Living with you is like raising a rare, eccentric animal that’s difficult to care for.”

Although it seemed like she was criticizing me, she was really just boasting about my eccentricity. Saki herself was an eccentric in many ways. She hated ordinary things.