In December, I had my most serious attempt; in the end, I couldn't complete all the steps and survived. However, I had no plans, hadn't even bought Christmas gifts. I wasn't supposed to be here. I still hate myself. I want to leave. I don't know why lately I feel jealous or envious of the success of those closest to me, my family, my best friend. I feel insignificant, and I am. I want to try again, and I will. It angers me that it's not like in the movies: there's no one who calls at the last moment or shows up at your house unexpectedly. In reality, we are alone. In 200 years, no one will know my name. It hurts that I couldn't achieve my goal even though I prepared for it. For me, there are no serious conditions to try. After several psychiatrists and psychologists, I can say that I cannot be fixed. I am a broken toy. I want to leave; there's no point in waking up to go to work and pretend I have plans or that I enjoy being around people who stopped understanding me long ago. I want to leave for the 10-year-old me who was abused by his teacher. I want to leave for the alienated teenager who didn't know he was autistic until adulthood. I want to leave for the adult me who hasn't accomplished anything he set out to do. For that LGBT person who doesn't know why God punished him multiple times (autism, Marfan, gay?, abused, depressed). I want to leave because I no longer have the energy to stand out or try to achieve something. I want to leave because I'll never become a renowned writer. I'm tired of pretending; I hope I can leave soon.
I need courage. Will I get it?
I need courage. Will I get it?
