Worthless

Even as I type this, I can't help but remember the countless anons who said "do it faggot" when they'd see a post about someone being depressed. I can still taste the pills from my first attempt. They were chalky and tasted horrid. I remember the rope, well robe tie snapping on my second attempt. I remember clumsily stumbling back to my feet after clanging my head on the bed frame. I remember standing on the edge of my house's roof. Never strong enough to take the last step. Survival is a conscious decision. To stave off the desire to put an end to the mocking, writhing ball of unending suffering that is existing in this world. I see so many people, who are unhappy, and unfulfilled, and I think myself the lesser, because this isn't where I was suppose to be. The faux-confidence that was instilled in many of my fellow children of the 90s was supposed to serve as the driving agent to stimulate my development into a productive member of society. Instead it is just another crudgel I can use in my constant flagellation.