27-06-2020

It's not that I hate myself. Because I don't, not necessarily. It's
that I think that there's no point to me. I don't think I'm destined
for greatness. Honestly, I don't think I'm destined for anything at all.
I think I should have died all those years ago, when I first got the impulse
to end it all, although at that point it was over elementary school bullies
and fights with relatives. Now it's just... the lack of reason for my existance.
I'm not trying to be dramatic, but I truly think everything would be better
if I was no longer around. My family would have less money problems. They
would no longer have to be dissapointed in me. I ruin people's days just
by being around them. It's just logical. It just makes sense. If I wasn't
around, things would be better.

I will never be the person I want to be. I will never look the way I
want to look. I will never be with the people I love. They will never
even know who I am. I'm not good at art, I'm barely any good at writing,
and I can't do maths or solve complex problems, so I can never get a
well paying job. The only future I see for myself is as a basement-dwelling
dissapointment, leeching off my friends and family until the day they come
to their senses and decide to cut me off.

I make myself sick. I shouldn't even be sitting here right now. I should
be making concrete plans about how to end it all. But God knows I won't
actually do it. Because I never do.

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