How I should respect myself then.
I am faced with unpalatable prospect of suicide being my only option. Of course, it’s far out in the future. Everyone dies someday, myself included, so no sense in being a damn fool and hurrying it. I’ve created my plan and am mulling over the details of my suicide note. It makes me feel better that they’re prepared in the event I am suddenly seized with the realization that my time has come. I am such a coward that any stay of execution will prolong my suffering. That’s why I never killed myself when I was a child. There were simply so many things I had not bothered to prepare ahead of time that I frittered away what little resolve I had at nine years old.
My mental health continues its precipitous decline. My anxiety has reached a paranoid fever pitch, so that the visual hallucinations flit in and out of the corner of my vision. My agoraphobia has grown so severe I can no longer leave my apartment outside of specified times, which expand and shrink as pleases them and with no logical reason. Sleep comes after a long time of lying alone, as always, in the dark. When sleep comes, it doesn’t always stay. I’ve come to hate being around people, hate the way they look, smell, talk, act. All I want to do is hop in my car and run over as many of them as possible.
My depression continues to weigh me down into an abyss from which I cannot be retrieved, namely because I don’t want to be. At this point I think I’d rather die than be rescued. All I can ask the feeble ray of light is this: why now? Why not when I still had some shred of self-respect and self-esteem? Why not when there was still an opportunity for me to become normal?
I am a dystheist bordering on maltheist. I feel like, despite the good times, the final goal was to always beat me down into someone’s rug, something that may have been agreeable had I received anything other than stilettos ground into my spine. What I have really wanted these past twenty-seven years is somewhere I belong and am wanted for more than a server with a manacle around their ankle. I wanted to be a person, but I have not been permitted to even become an insect. I wanted to be part of humanity, but I am just a bearskin rug hung worn and dirtied in the cosmic flea market. No one wants me and I don’t want them In fact, I hate all of you. Hate is all you’ve ever taught me. You all deserve whatever awful things you receive.
I have done nothing with my life.
If only it was out of laziness I did nothing! How I should respect myself then.
Whatever I choose to do, I want someone, anyone, to know that I hung on for as long as I could. My apologies for taking up your precious air. Maybe I ought to stay and become one of those spiteful old bastards that lives seemingly forever. If I could I would make all you people’s lives miserable.
I am a misanthrope. I don’t feel bad for any of you people. In fact, as years drag on, I think of you less and less and as much as possible treat you with the same disregard you have for me. It doesn’t matter to me if I hurt you on my way back to my rusty old basement. It’s near impossible for me to empathize with you because I don’t care about you. And tell me why I should. You’ve never returned the favor when I did.
By the way, I don’t care about your kids, either. If you’re lucky I’ll dial 999 if I see yours locked in a hot car, and only if I’m feeling a need for a bit of hollow thanks and praise. I judge what and how to help or interact with you based on how humanity in general would act or interact. As it so happens most people would be happy to leave you lying in the street guttering in blood. If you don’t believe me, stop looking at your hippy dippy happy first world and see what the rest of it amounts to.
You are all insufferable bores who have become so utterly predictable I want to kill myself just at the thought of it.
I want to write more but am rambling as it is. I have a big rant about how much I hate all of you and the rest of the world, but it’s quite a bit to type up. Some weekend or another, I suppose.