I wish I had died when I was still a kid. Around that time, I think I really realized I don’t want to live, that everything is pointless. At least I didn’t yet realize what the deal was with my family, and I still believed Santa Claus exists.
I would have missed nice things (mainly those that did not happen to me but were books, movies and ideas), and I would have also missed endless self-loathing, painful interactions with others that bore no fruit whatsoever, the endless frustration, the endless boredom. I would have skipped dealing with mental illness, and knowledge that I’m a disappointment to my family, as much as they are to me.
Today, I realized that I can at least be happy because I am going to die, it’s only a matter of whether I’ll wait or not. And it’s sad. To live like this. The longer i wait, the more bitter I’ll become. I’ll lose who I am.
I know that I wasn’t always completely like this, but it’s as if a little worm entered my ear , it ate my flesh bit by bit until most of “me” is actually that weak, nagging parasite. I wish it could have ended before it turned out like this.