At an age where I should be obsessed with living, I can't stop thinking about death.
And yeah, I know how pretentious and lame that sounds but it's true. At least that's the best way my stupid mind can describe it. I don't know. God. Why kill myself? I feel guilty, like I need an excuse, like I'm trying to tell a teacher why I don't have my homework. It's like I don't even have a good enough reason. I don't think it's that I hate my life because in order to do that I'd have to have a life to begin with. And I don't. I don't feel alive, more like I'm waiting for death. Let me try to explain myself the best way I can without sounding like the self obsessed brat that I am. I guess, mostly, I can't help but feel like I'm missing out. Or that I missed out already. Like, everyone's already lived before me. Like life was some huge party that I showed up late to. And I don't want that to be my life. The hangover. That's not to say that I'm completely dead inside, I can laugh, I can hang with my friends or whatever. I can live a little. But that's the thing. It's only a little. It's the bare minimum. I don't live, I exist. I'm simply there. Nothing feels genuine any more. Because honestly, most the time, I'm not really having fun, I'm trying to convince people I'm having fun. I'm faking my most basic emotions like 90% of the time. Isn't that weird? It's like a burden. I find it harder to be happy now than when I was six years old. I'm stupider than my six year old self. That's so dumb.
Everything seems so insignificant. And I'm not trying to be goth or whatever, pretending that my life is so much worse than it is. Hell, it probably isn't. But I'm not pretending. I'd love to have that opportunity, but I can't fake the way I feel. Maybe to others, but not to myself. This is all real. I'm a pretentious idiot, but I'm an honest pretentious idiot. It's weird. I just somehow manage to find the bad in everything. Like, I'll be watching an old movie or whatever and find myself thinking stuff like ‘these guys are probably dead by now’. ‘That cat definitely is’.
Jesus. What the hell am I even talking about? I don't know. It's hard to make sense, if that makes sense. Why can't I just enjoy myself? Why can't I just live? Christ. Why can't I, a fucking teenager, just not fucking think? I wouldn't have thought that would be a God damn problem at this age. But it is. Most people seem to be able to do things. Lots of things. They manage to do and very rarely stop to think. I have the opposite problem. I never stop thinking and very rarely manage to do. Anything. I'm sick of thinking about everything. I'm tired of being tired.
What else? Oh yeah, I'm a weirdo. A loner. Cliché, I know, but it's true. I know I'm different, and OK that's not specifically a bad thing, but it is something. I can't be like the rest of them. I'm not even sure I want to. They all look at me like I'm alien and in a way I guess I am. I'm currently writing this note in the school library. Everyone probably thinks it's homework. God I'm so sad.
And then there's that question. The one I routinely tell myself daily. The one that I knew the answer to, even before I asked it: who's really going to miss me?
What am I trying to say? I thought this would be deep and poetic and meaningful and that I'd be able to explain it all and that everyone would know why I'm depressed but truth is I don't why I'm depressed. But then in a way I guess that's the problem. I don't know. I don't know why I don't feel happy any more. I don't know how to feel happy again. I don't know how to live like I did 4 years ago. That sounds so stupid when I say it out loud. I hate people who talk like this. Why do I always end up becoming the people I mock?
Tell my family that I love them and that more importantly I know they love me. Even you Eloise. Even if you do express your love through hate. Somehow.
And tell my friends… Ah fuck it what friends? Tell my friend (that's you Sam) that... Well she already knows. Because she's always know. Because I don't think there was ever any doubt from the start. I got to stop myself and wrap this up before I realise how idiotic this all is and change my mind.
Oh yeah, and I'm sorry. Spend the rest of your life hating me if you need to. I probably deserve it. But please don't hate yourself. I would say it's no one's fault, but no one's going to believe that. Please do. Because I mean it. I'm not doing this out of spite or as protest. I'm not. I'm doing this out of love. Not for myself, but for others, your lives will be so much better without mine. And also because I'm a moron.
Just let it be known that I wanted to be so much more than what I was. I really did. Promise.
Whatever the hell that means.