(This blog wasn't supposed to be like this)...
A prelude of sorts: I am not worth the trouble I cause to everyone (even myself).
I read of these things: Borderline Personality Disorder. Major Depressive Disorder. But one is not supposed to know what one is, psychologically. So what am I?! I am dead! Dead! Because if these things aren't me, then I am "normal", for me, and this "normal" is not a normal I want with me for decades! Death is sweeter than this.
I don't know why I can't do it. I should kill myself; I have insinuated at it time and time again. There's nothing more pathetic than someone who doesn't take the logical path and rid others of their problematic presence. If "this" is me- alone, scheming, overcome with a brain that won't stop talking (and lately of nothing but loneliness and death), unwanted, lethargic, trapped within my own bubble, and a burden on everyone- then it is best that this "me" ceases to exist! I guess I don't fit into any of those psychiatric labels: those are for people with hope. I am classified as: should be dead. You know where people like me are? Lying six feet under or scattered as ash!
Why, mom and dad? Why can't you see that I need help? Why did you not see years ago?! Better yet: why did you even copulate? I could have been avoided!
I'm so pathetic. I hate that I can hold on just enough to prevent myself from falling apart and either rising to never fall again or falling to never rise again.