The death of a non-person is not sad

For years and years, since I was a little kid, I’ve been dying as a person, and at the age of 29 have only recently realized it. Call it depression if you want, but I don’t know of any other depressed people that have failed at life this hard. I can more precisely describe my condition as mistaken birth. Some cosmic mistake resulted in my birth, and somewhere deep down I’ve always known life was never meant for me.

My self esteem and ego have always been so non-existent that I’ve never felt like a member of the human race. I’ve always blended into the background, never acted the same way as others, never been normal. I’ve let so many opportunities for happiness slip by that any chance at self-forgiveness has long fled as well. Girls that I turned down, people I could have befriended, skills I could have gained, experiences that I could have had, all wasted, all seared into my mind. The result is that I’ve completely lost momentum in my life and am so far behind people of my own age that my feelings of isolation have become self-fulfilling; now I really am a freak who is completely cut off from humanity and am worthy only of ridicule or pity. Now my curse has truly taken on a life of its own, as it has become self-perpetuating. I’m now completely unemployable, unlovable, vacant, desolate, inhuman.

I am a non-person, the closest thing to a ghost without being dead. Maybe “monster” is the right word.

I’m trapped in a prison that disguises itself as life. I’m faced every day with the indescribable pain of observing the happiness of others, of beautiful people and things, of freedom and purpose. There are so many wonderful things and experiences in the world that only serve to inflict pain on me because I know I am only their observer.

I’m dead to the world but I haven’t stopped breathing yet. I can see it in people’s faces when they look at me. I don’t belong on Earth and they know it. I’m dying. My spirit has almost drained from me, but my body stubbornly continues on. My inexplicably good health torments me, drawing out my suffering. People my age and younger die of cancer or in car accidents constantly. What an absurd atrocity that a fake person like me should keep living and real people like them are allowed to die.

I know what I have to do. For the first time in my life I have a purpose. This suffering has to end, this body has to stop. Death isn’t sad when the person is already gone.