I feel the need to confess the reasoning of why I wish to depart from this abysmal planet; anyone in my daily life (my parents) would just discount what I have to say, and I would get a ticket to a "wonderful" institution for a few weeks.
First, I have a terrible propensity when it comes to coping with most trivial of things. If I learn I have a cavity, I fall into deep despair, or being in the public, I can stress to the point when I get home, I collapse onto my bed and dream, sleep, a place where I have no sense of suffering, bullshit, the repugnant, abhorrent parts of humanity; Driving is arduous and nerve wracking--close encounters of wrecks.
Second, My quality of life is non-existent. My bathroom emits the scent of piss, from clothes I've pissed in from not being able to get out the bed in time. Mountains of clothes and clutter is splayed throughout my room making it difficult to traverse. Constant praying to God to end my life and bible reading is routine. I contribute nothing to society; I mope around the house collecting a check--all while being shamed for doing so, but my life is somehow precious but not precious enough to be provided monetary support ( I don't know, I don't get it either.) I lay around around waiting for death to claim me, bring me into the domain of my creator. With my luck and health, it will be another few decades till I expire. Why does the medical community keep persisting in extending human life? The thirty-forty years our ancestors were allocated is good enough for me.
Third, I'm a burden on my parents for the reasons explained above. I'm twenty-seven but still rely on them for the most primitive of things. It isn't realistic for them to provide for me until death snatches them away. They should be able to enjoy life without being held down by a terminally ill daughter; a blunder like me isn't fair to them. My death will forever change their lives and will destroy any joy they feel. Hope still resonates in my heart that one day they'll be happy again, maybe forget Willow ever existed (It would be better for everyone.)
I know some here will disagree, and that's okay; this is my confession not yours. But I have a terminal illness, Severe depression and Schizophrenia. It has ruined my cognitive function, my energy, the ability to feel joy or care about how I look. I'm a burden to my parents, to society, and lets face it, everyone on SS. No one wants to hear my bullshit, but where else can I confess without pro-lifers throwing handcuffs on me and sending me to the happy farm.
And I'm tired, too tired for forty more years for God to take me far away from here.
I had dreams. Lots. To be a well known writer. To adopt and save a lot of children from the horrors of foster care. To change the way people see the world. It all doesn't matter--I'm too spent to care anymore.
Plans for one more trip to Nevada are being made. Marijuana is legal there and will helps me in those last thirty days of pain. I'll have a joint and a prayer before I swallow SN.
This is my confession, this is my truth, this is my vulnerability.
First, I have a terrible propensity when it comes to coping with most trivial of things. If I learn I have a cavity, I fall into deep despair, or being in the public, I can stress to the point when I get home, I collapse onto my bed and dream, sleep, a place where I have no sense of suffering, bullshit, the repugnant, abhorrent parts of humanity; Driving is arduous and nerve wracking--close encounters of wrecks.
Second, My quality of life is non-existent. My bathroom emits the scent of piss, from clothes I've pissed in from not being able to get out the bed in time. Mountains of clothes and clutter is splayed throughout my room making it difficult to traverse. Constant praying to God to end my life and bible reading is routine. I contribute nothing to society; I mope around the house collecting a check--all while being shamed for doing so, but my life is somehow precious but not precious enough to be provided monetary support ( I don't know, I don't get it either.) I lay around around waiting for death to claim me, bring me into the domain of my creator. With my luck and health, it will be another few decades till I expire. Why does the medical community keep persisting in extending human life? The thirty-forty years our ancestors were allocated is good enough for me.
Third, I'm a burden on my parents for the reasons explained above. I'm twenty-seven but still rely on them for the most primitive of things. It isn't realistic for them to provide for me until death snatches them away. They should be able to enjoy life without being held down by a terminally ill daughter; a blunder like me isn't fair to them. My death will forever change their lives and will destroy any joy they feel. Hope still resonates in my heart that one day they'll be happy again, maybe forget Willow ever existed (It would be better for everyone.)
I know some here will disagree, and that's okay; this is my confession not yours. But I have a terminal illness, Severe depression and Schizophrenia. It has ruined my cognitive function, my energy, the ability to feel joy or care about how I look. I'm a burden to my parents, to society, and lets face it, everyone on SS. No one wants to hear my bullshit, but where else can I confess without pro-lifers throwing handcuffs on me and sending me to the happy farm.
And I'm tired, too tired for forty more years for God to take me far away from here.
I had dreams. Lots. To be a well known writer. To adopt and save a lot of children from the horrors of foster care. To change the way people see the world. It all doesn't matter--I'm too spent to care anymore.
Plans for one more trip to Nevada are being made. Marijuana is legal there and will helps me in those last thirty days of pain. I'll have a joint and a prayer before I swallow SN.
This is my confession, this is my truth, this is my vulnerability.
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