My biggest regret is that I didn’t kill myself the first time I thought about it. I was 12, and I looked forward. I saw exactly what I have become: a useless, anxiety-plagued lump. Right then I knew I should kill myself because there was nothing for me in the future. I was right. It’s been 20 years and not even a week can pass without me regretting my decision to live. It would have been so much easier, so much better when I was a child, before people expect you to be reasonable and thoughtful. I should have done it then, or I should have done it one of the thousands of times I’ve thought about it since. But I’m a coward. And I probably won’t do it tonight, either. And I’ll regret it again in the morning.