I’m not as suicidal as I used to be.
There was a time when I was certain that I would commit suicide. I didn’t particularly want to; it was just a fact of life. I knew that one day my emotions would overwhelm me, and that would be it. I’ve done a lot of things in my time I’ve regretted; it made sense that I would go too far, again, and then decide I was of no worth to humanity.
My experiments with the education system have failed. Most of the time, I’m too scared to leave the house. Now, I think it’s certain that I contribute far less to society than I take. But I’m not as suicidal, though I look to the future and only see more pain.
I know now that I can’t do it. I’ve tried, but I’ve never taken that final step. I’m too scared of it going wrong, that I will cause yet more trouble for people. No-one can be watching, because they could interfere.
I want to die. I really, really want to die. Taking my body for parts is all I’m good for. I think many nights of what would happen if I died in my sleep.
They can feed me up with tablets all they like, that won’t change what I can do.
And I used to be worse than this.