I understand that I am a complete waste of space because of how badly I weigh on people. I’m truly, genuinely sorry I even exist. To have even the smallest impact on someone else is too great of pressure. I have to do good. I have to help. I have to. If I don’t, what was the point of even being here?
But here’s the thing: as hard as I try, I don’t even make an impact. If there’s any sort of effect I have on people, it’s negative and it’s minuscule—so small that it can be ignored.
It’s funny. I put myself in this dilemma. Do I want to be seen or do I want to stay in the shadows? As much as it scares me to affect someone’s life, I want to help. I want to make positive change and I want to do it without hurting anyone.
Then again, I frequently make mistakes. Often, I’m so blind and dense that I can’t see how badly I’m wearing on people. I’m annoying. I’m not listening enough. I’m not sharing my story as much as others are.
I don’t want to hurt people anymore—and killing myself can help with that. It’s not like I made any substantial impact on anyone, so who cares about the dead teen on 21st? You all thought she was going to kill herself anyways, cracking jokes about how her rope swing is a noose.
Joke’s on you, I’m actually gonna tie it into a noose. That was a pretty good idea.
Oh, and that’s another thing.
Apparently, the way I deliver news is too frank. No one really takes me seriously.
That’s okay. You don’t have to take me seriously. I’m just venting. It’s nice to get my feelings out before I try something.
I’ll see you all next year, because I feel like my suicide attempts are scheduled around this time every year. That’s actually kind of funny. My depression is like clockwork.