Why not?

I’m 19 and I wanted to be writer for the last five years, but the path I chose to become a writer was a very different one. This, in return, was not liked by my parents or anyone around me. I didn’t chose anything bad; it was just nontraditional, thus making me a heretic. I can’t blame my parents or anyone else for caring about me too much but when they stopped me from walking on that path I realized that I can’t become a writer anymore because I just don’t want to.
I don’t want to die because I’m tired or depressed. (Albeit, I’m both. Tired of telling everyone how nontraditional is not necessarily bad. And depressed because they think that I’m changed now and only want to argue them.) I want to die because it’s the only thing that I can do easily which others won’t want me to do. I hate myself and as I can’t blame anyone for my condition: it is definitely my fault. I’m the one to be blamed.
Without writing I’ve nothing to live. I don’t have anything with me; I’m empty as well as a disappointment. My parents don’t know yet how useless I’ve become. A smoker at the age of 19 . . . (hoping to die of cancer, sometimes). With all this in me, I don’t think my life is worth anything.