Beautiful Suicide

I am afraid there is little joy left in me; I have lost the ability to convey compassion for others appropriately, and I feel that I have no choice but to distance myself from everyone around me. To fade into nothingness without anyone ever noticing would be the best scenario, though unlikely due to the hopes I have unwittingly thrust upon those who know me. I don't know how I arrived here, but I know for sure I have felt this way for as long as I can remember. Few events have brought me to the brink of true happiness, but reality has steadfastly remained attached to me like an anchor. I can't swim; therefore I am destined to drown. I probably need help to pull me from this submersing paranoia, but I am too smart, too clever, and too independent to accept these things. It's either listen to some therapist drivel on about the good things I have and tell me to hang in there, even though he/she doesn't have the slightest indication of what it's like to walk in my shoes for a day; or listen to someone who has supposedly been through what I've been through drone on and whine about how bad it was, and how they're better for it. Cynicism is odd like that.

Or, the third option is to tell a friend or family member about it, except I despise people who constantly bitch about their problems; so much so that I won't become one. My family is just a group of disjointed misfits anyway, unable to relate to anyone's problems but their own, casting away anybody else's feelings as insignificant. Aside from that, I don't need to burden people with my problems when everyone has their own. Watching these words form before my eyes helps a little, but I can't help myself with this exercise so there's really no point. Nobody would agree with me out of respect, but the world as I know it to be would be better if I weren't here; sure, there would be some hurt feelings for a while, but overall it would be best in the long run. Maybe I'm just trying to justify it in my own mind, but either way, I can't deal with the pain any longer. I refuse to numb it and risk becoming an addict of some sort, as that would only add to my shame. Reading this back to myself, I sound ridiculous and it only reinforces my belief that I will never do anything except suffer, as the situations in my life all seem beyond my control. I am a coward and won't ever do what should be done, which is eliminate myself from the equation.

I am tired of being me.

My self-imposed responsibilities have done nothing but given me a false sense of worth while exposing my shortcomings as a person. I wrestle with determination and exasperation with every breath I take, and exhale the same dissatisfaction regardless of the outcome. I am exhausted with chasing my potential as I wallow in inadequacy. I do not wish nor expect to live to be old, I only hope something happens to me soon so we all have a solution and someone/something else to blame. I don't have the patience to wait around either, so I'll have to come up with a solution; I'll at least have the satisfaction of following through on something for once. But you never know, maybe someone will look deeper into me for once and figure this out; as I've written before, "save me this time or I won't be the same again"....I feel as though nobody, not even the ones closest to me, truly know who I am. I may not either; maybe I write these things to see if I'll actually be surprised by them, to make myself seem so different, to feign my own troubles or exaggerate them to give myself comfort; or maybe I'm just being dramatic because it's in my DNA.

I just want to own something for once, to say that I controlled at least one aspect of my life, even if it is how it ends. That in itself would be the start of a new beginning, in a way, and then I would die rather triumphantly because I had taken control of my own destiny, as short as it may be, and aimed it in the direction of my choice. These thoughts come too easily, and I worry that those around me will never understand why; perhaps I just want the closure that I will never see with my own eyes, to finally show everyone that I fooled them with my performance of normalcy. Revenge maybe, but not for what anyone did to me. This is my life, shaped by regret and uncapitalized opportunities, solidified by self-hatred and piety at once. I just keep going, waiting but not really wanting someone to notice, because then it becomes real. Or worse, it becomes a joke, a passing feeling until it all builds into this monster again, only next time I will destroy myself. Or not. I have failed at everything else.