i don't want to die but i do want to kill myself and it's the most distressing thing bc i really and truly want to live-- kind of-- at the very least, I could never do that to the people around me. but i also can't get rid of the cold logical insisting telling me that it's just the most pragmatic thing to die, no judgments, no ifs ands or buts, just the barefaced fact of it that i will never be human.
and i should have done it long ago. i should never have let it get to this point, with a wife, and friends, and a whole life that i can't leave behind anymore. back when i was untethered, unmoored, just a lump of sadness and anxiety floating around this world, that would have affected no one and would have left this world better. but now i can't die, at least by my own hand, bc it would make my wife sad. and i don't want that. but i also feel like it would be better for her not to be tied to me. she does deserve better.
but i think the worst is realizing that i have to continue existing like this, constantly in pain, constantly terrified, never at ease, and there's nothing i can do about it, just toil and drudgery and abject misery until i finally crumble into my decrepit pauper's grave and the world forgets i ever existed. i won't allow myself to take myself out, and that fact means that for as long as i breathe, i'll hurt. it eases sometimes, but it never truly goes away, and i can't just resign myself to that. but there's literally nothing else to do.
and i'll never be good enough, not for anyone else, not for myself, and certainly not for this end stage capitalist hellscape we live in. i'll never be anything, and therefore, it would make logical sense for me to die and free up some resources for someone who actually is good for something. but i'm too selfish and stubborn and i'll continue clinging to life and in doing so, will hurt everyone i come across. but i still won't die.
am i terrible? am i awful? am i a child of the devil after all? what's a little more guilt when my entire life is stitched from it, what's a little more shame about my pathetic existence when all conscious thoughts confirm it. everything i am is unacceptable.
i can't face it. but i have no choice.
and i could have been someone. i could have mattered too. but it's far too late for that, too late for me, and this world can never hold me the way i wanted. i never stood a chance, and it's not entirely fair for me to hate myself for that, but i also can't help it, a little. if i'd just been better, smarter, more likable, more hardworking, if i'd just buckled down and embraced the grind, if i'd just x, if i'd just y, if only i was someone else, something made of more than mediocrity and despair, someone smarter, prettier, richer, more talented, or if i'd done that, or done this, or had an identity outside of others' perception, positive or negative, if i was more, if i was less, if i was better. but i'm not. i'm me. and i'm deeply sorry for it.