I wanted to show everyone and no one, a nameless, formless audience, that I could do it and handle it, that I could be good too, and I didn’t care if I killed myself in trying to prove that. I didn’t care if I suffered, I always suffered, I just thought the suffering would be worth it if I succeeded. Now: I suffered, others suffered, but I didn’t succeed. It wasn’t worth it. Now, I’m stuck without my purpose, my spite, and I’m left to pick up the pieces of my failing. I want to love myself, damnit. Hasn’t this poor kid suffered enough? Haven’t I suffered enough? I just want to be okay finally. I want to be normal. I don’t want to hurt myself; I don’t want to kill myself. I want to be good too — but I’m starting to think that I don’t really know what being “good” really means. Perhaps I should discover that before I move forward.
Still… give me some time to grieve myself, this metaphorical suicide.