I know I’m going to kill myself in time

For all my life I have just passed from one painful absurdity to the next. And all along I thought, woe is me, I haven’t any luck in life; a life of a boy who was intellectual, creative, loving, and self-aware. As I came to adulthood, I came to the melancholic realization that I am none of these things, nor have I ever been. Even with every shred of sorrowful heartbreak and death of a loved one or a cherished emotion, from every punch in the groin to every stab in the neck, the truly, most dangerously negative force was my own sense of self. I am my own pain.

For a time I honestly believed I was a regular person and that most people had bad luck. Of course not always, but each time I was kicked out of the house as a kid, I pulled myself together for some reason and believed I was at least worthy of pretending to be worthy.

But I am worthy of nothing. I know now that I don’t even know who I am, I have no identity. All my life I’ve passed from obsessing over one person, over being just like them in every way because I wasn’t good enough, to the next, to the next, to the next, like some creepy little parasite. And I think people see that in me. It’s why I loathe myself and I can feel the loathing of everyone, even strangers, as they pass me by. They get weird vibes.

Naturally, I will add, I have attempted suicide before, and been through the works: the psych ward, the medications, nurses, psychiatrists, cardboard pancakes and stale orange juice – then outside life again, therapy, friends, family, and “recovery”.

It’s all the same. I thought I was afraid to commit suicide because of the fear of the pain of dying, but I fear the thought of going through all that again should I fail to do so and make the deed public once again. What kind of joke have I become? What am I saying? I have always been a joke, The Joke, long before my first attempt at suicide; that reminds me, I realized the other night that I have pondered killing myself and the absurdity of my existence for as long as I can remember: since I was 4 years old. What does that tell you, or more importantly, me?

I know it’s only a matter of time. While part of me continues to kick me into effort to finish school or even pursue my many artistic and musical ambitions, at this point I haven’t the mental fortitude to play a decent melody on a guitar or piano and call it a day. Nothing can be done of it, and so the last remaining option is as it is.

I already know I am an evil, heartless demon. So while all my conscience rips at me at the idea of all the stagnant destruction and blackness my suicide will cause, I know that in time, I am going to kill my self. Each day only gets worse than the last. Thank god for mental illness.