Tara Condell

Warning: Content about suicide

Hi Tara,

I read about you yesterday and I burst into tears on the bus. You don’t know me. You will never know me. But I know you now and I’m listening to your playlist. How strange is that? I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s doing this. I’m sure many people have felt something when they read about you. It’s really strange, Tara. I don’t even know if this is appropriate. I don’t know what your mom, or family, or friends, will think when they come across these words from a stranger — me — about their loved one — you. I hope they don’t mind because I certainly don’t mean any harm or disrespect, and my heart really needs to speak to you today.

I read your last note on your website, Tara. You sounded so smart, so aware. I could only imagine what you had been through, how you must have felt, leading up to that moment. I read your note again and again and every time it shook me just as hard. It was 7 pm when I first found you. I was standing in the middle of a busy London street, feeling disassociated from my surroundings. It was disturbing to watch the cold, indifferent faces passing me by. Life became both blurry and suddenly precious. I thought your note was such a private thing. How did strangers like me get to be invited into such a private moment? I didn’t know how to feel exactly.

I’m sure I could’ve written something like that. I’ve had similar thoughts. But I could never actually do it. I don’t think I would. But I think about it often and now I think about you. I’m reading your blog posts, going through your Instagram photos, and I feel so personal. You make me think about so many things. You make me feel understood. You make me feel less alone. Actually, now I know I’m not alone. It’s Sunday Candy now from your playlist. I feel less scared. I feel okay. I’m practically in London by myself, navigating this life all on my own, and I think I will be okay. I’ve had so many blah relationships that I’m not confident I would see till the end, and I think I will be okay. I haven’t got one to love me, and I think I will be okay. I feel sad sometimes, and I think I will be okay.

This is life, I know, Tara. And it will be like this for a long time, albeit some ups and downs. I don’t have big expectations, nor do I feel particularly sad now if all of this comes to an end. But I don’t want the New York Post to write about me or the Daily Mail to post random photos of me without my permissions. Because that’s the sort that would happen if I do it myself, and it’s certainly not better than living like this right now for me. It’d be so anticlimactic for someone who thinks crazy like me. Actually, why would I care either way? My point is, I think life is quite alright. I can be happy right now, right here because I know a lot more wouldn’t make a lot of difference. It is what it is, right?

I think most people feel like this, that life should be something more, but it is what it is. And, at this point in life, I’m getting more okay about it. I don’t feel super connected to everything or even anything most of the times but in the moments it happens, it makes everything worth it, and to me, it’s kinda the point. I’m grateful. Yesterday I met my bestfriend and I cried in front of her, baring all my vulnerability to her after seven years of knowing her. Seven years of life for a few moments like that. Then, yesterday, I found you, letting your note reach the depth of my soul. That’s twenty-four years of life. I can wait. I can get through these ordinary hours just for those gorgeous beams of light.

When I got off the bus onto the London street, overwhelmed by your note, I just realised that I’m the opposite of numb. I think so much. I feel so much I could explode at some point. Maybe I will. Then I just hope there are people who will witness it with me, and maybe write about it.

If you’re feeling like you want to die, it’s important to tell someone.

Help and support is available right now if you need it. You don’t have to struggle with difficult feelings alone.

Samaritans – for everyone 

Call 116 123 

Email jo@samaritans.org