Suicidal For All The Wrong Reasons

Of course, I guess in my entry from yesterday, I neglected to mention my life isn’t even that bad; I don’t know why I’m always on the edge of feeling like I need to step in front of a bus over the stupidest little things.

I have two sisters and one brother…or, two brothers and one sister. It depends how to look at it. My fourteen-year-old sister recently began to wonder about her gender identity, and, whereas it’s not official and she’s yet to pick a new name or switch over to male pronouns, it makes the whole thing complicated.

My older sister is autistic. I’m not saying just the autistic where it makes it harder for her to communicate socially, I mean, she’s 18 and still watches cartoon and acts like an eight-year-old.

My older brother is 23, and he’s…he’s a deadbeat, really. He’s too lazy to get a job or do anything with his life. But I miss him.

My mom works a lot and isn’t the best mother, but I know she loves me, and I guess that’s what counts.

My dad is a dick. But he’s a good guy, even if he can be a douche.

I am a sophomore in high school, I’m 16. I have ratty brown hair and gray-green eyes and there’s nothing spectacular about my looks, besides the fact I’m extremely thin.

Yeah, and I know a lot of people feel skinny girls have no reason to be depressed, seeing as we’re what "society" accepts as beautiful, but what a lot of people don’t realize is that it’s not "society" that says skinny is beautiful, it’s Hollywood. And because Hollywood says so, I have a lot more people commenting on how ugly and weird-looking I am, at 93 pounds, than my friends who are of a normal weight or even overweight. Why? Because they figure it doesn’t hurt since I’m skinny.

But I digress.

I love to write. I love to read. I love my computer. I hate school. I’m flunking out. I’m kinda worthless at almost everything I love, anyway.

My life isn’t that bad, I just make a big deal about everything.

Right now, I’m in English 10, and I’ve decided to go last to present and PowerPoint and essay that I just couldn’t find the motivation to do. I’d fail, anyway, so I’m not sure why I even considered trying.

I dunno. Maybe I’m just too fucked up for my own good. Maybe I should just be locked up in the loony-bin. That’s probably where I belong, at any rate.

The only thing I can do really well is type fast, and even then, I make 1,000,000,000 mistakes in one sentence. And I’m a loud typist. You could hear me typing from a mile away.

My mom, at least, supports the decision of me going into editing. And that’s good. I guess I could enjoy being an editor, as long as it kept me away from people at least 95% of the time. It’d give me a lot of time to myself while I pursue something I could actually be happy doing…like acting. Maybe I’m just whimsical.

 

I’ve also decided that, should I ever finally decide to kill myself, I’d post the note here, rather than my angst blog on Tumblr. My best friend, Dani, has access to that, and she can stop me. I want my suicide to be a private and uninterrupted decision the next time I decide to do it. Dani saw my post about deciding on suicide about a week ago, and she texted my mom. Luckily my mom will believe anything I tell her, and I was able to bullshit up a story about how I’m "not suicidal".

I know I need help. But, honestly, some sick part of me doesn’t want help. I want an ending. I want people to believe I’m okay, because my problems are just that. Mine. They’re my problems, and I don’t want to force anyone else to deal with them. Probably a cliché, I know, but not one I’m going to worry about right now. My suicide isn’t going to be for attention that went wrong, it’s going to be with the purpose of dying. And I’m honestly waiting for the day it feels right to end it.

Yeah, I know what anyone who happens to read this might think; "If you’re so eager to end your life, why are you posting about it? Why don’t you just do it?" And the answer is simple. I’m not ready. I was ready a few weeks ago, but Dani made it so I couldn’t, and I missed my chance. Now, I’m awaiting a good second opportunity for my death. I’m ready for it to be over, yes, but the actual suicide part needs to…feel right. Does that make sense? I want it to feel right. I don’t want to just spontaneously do it. I want it to be planned, flawlessly executed, and on the day I plan it. I want control over it.

As for posting about it, I guess that goes as far as I just want someone, even if they’re complete strangers, to know that I don’t have a bad life, and that I love everyone in it, and that, yes, I’ve had my struggles but those aren’t the reasons that cause me to feel this way. I’m just, deep, deep down, an unhappy person who doesn’t want to be here. I don’t want people who know me to know this, because they could be saddened or worried about something like this. But I want someone to know. Someone who can’t stop me, convince me that I shouldn’t do it, tell me I’m beautiful and worthy and blah…blah…blah…

I know I’m not ugly. Sure, I feel that way, sometimes, but I realize that I’m not hideous or fat. I know people love me. I know I have things I can do.

I just kinda don’t feel like any of that makes it worth it.