This note is just a formality. I know damn well most people won’t care that I’m gone, or why I’m gone. But leaving without an explanation is still sort of a dick move, and I guess I don’t want the last thing I ever do to be a dick move.
Well, what can I say really? Just that there’s an obvious negative correlation between how much someone knows about me and how much they want me around. Sure, I might seem OK at first. But I’m anything but OK. I’m awkward. I’m stupid. I’m oblivious. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come off as rude. I probably didn’t know what I was doing. I wasn’t paying attention. My mind was somewhere else. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that. I’m sorry.
Really, this is an apology. Not the letter, the suicide. The suicide is an apology. I’m sorry for wasting your time. I’m sorry for being difficult. I’m sorry for being awkward and making everyone uncomfortable. I’m sorry for making life harder than it needed to be. I was never the kind of person that people wanted to be around. I didn’t know how to fix it, but I’m fixing it now.
Please don’t fool yourself into thinking there was any hope for me. There really wasn’t. Don’t waste your time thinking what you could have done differently. There was no fixing this mess. There was no happy ending. There was no life I could have had. There was none of that shit. The longest relationship I ever had was ten months. Ten months. That’s the longest anyone has ever been able to stand me. You honestly expect me to believe someone would want to waste their life with me? Me?! Why? So my thrashing and tossing and turning can keep them up at night? So they can deal with my emotional breakdowns? So they can have awkward conversations? So they can hear dumb shit come out of my mouth all the time? So I can embarrass them? So I can fail them? So I can flake out on them? Who the fuck would want that? Who the fuck really wants me as a friend? Who the fuck really wants me around?
And to my dad… you didn’t really want me around, you just didn’t know it. Remember when I said there’s a negative correlation between how much someone knows about me and how much they want me around? Well, there’s something you don’t know about me. I spent a long time believing that if I ever came out to you, it would be in my suicide note. It turns out I was right. Now you know. I’m gay. I never wanted that. It’s just who I was. You talked about how seeing gay people holding hands makes you sick. You talked about them like they were the scum of the earth, not knowing you were talking about your own daughter. You told me about how you were engaged to that woman. You told me you ended the engagement because you didn’t want to marry someone who had gay friends. Honestly, part of me hopes that was an exaggeration, part of me thinks that’s something you would really do.
I’m not sorry that I never told you. I thought that you would disown me, and I probably just would have killed myself that much sooner. I don’t think I could have survived coming out to you. I was afraid you would decide that I meant nothing to you. I was afraid that you would regret bringing me into this world. I was afraid you would want nothing to do with me. I was afraid you would kick me out. I didn’t want to live through that. But now that you know, maybe you’ll miss me less (if you miss me at all). Maybe you’ll be glad I’m gone. Maybe I won’t be an embarrassment to you. After all, how can you miss a queer? How can you love a queer? I’d tell you to go to Hell, but that would mean I’d have to see your fucking face again.
I’m done wasting people’s time. I’m an inconvenience to everyone around me. I’m in pain. I want to die every day. I’ve felt his way for 11 years now. It’s not going away. It’s never going away. So I’m doing everyone (including myself) a favor and getting it over with.