Hope and Hysteria

Why I Killed Myself Pt. 2

Another day alive, another day to suffer and fail. It is all too easy to fade away so I'll be nothing once again. To live in a world so corrupted with privileged aristocrats who so readily abuse basic morals is to suffer; worse than not existing. Whenever I give myself time to meditate on the problems of the world and the problems of myself, I am overwhelmed with fear. There are so many things with myself and with people that can unpredictably go awry, which has been proven so much in the past. To be compared with others, being judged on performing menial tasks which I cannot even accomplish, is so embarrassing that I must end my life as a punishment and a guarantee that no corruption in myself and the world may ever hurt me again. The atrocities done now and in the past by the most privileged have shown me I am damned to succeed and damned to fail. If I succeed, I will be corrupted by the confounding diversity of topics to be understood to comprehend problems, thereby damning me to impose suffering on those weaker than I. If I fail, I will be made to suffer by the indifferent hand which is stronger than me. My mistakes, shortcomings, failures, and frustrations will disappear when I cease to exist, and I cannot bear to be alive. My life thus far has only gotten worse, filling up with less reason to hope and more reason to see cynicism as a fundamental outlook on how human beings behave and work, including myself. It is true that I exclusively celebrate, in the most light of terms, a mechanistic worldview where I see everything to be absolutely determined by interactions of one thing with another, and the fact of cause and effect. I see the things that affect me as overwhelmingly negative, and it seems their behaviour has only gotten worse. It could very well be, then, that I have no choice but to die before I see myself suffering more soon. Perhaps that mechanics of my situation pushes me from the unstable state of satisfaction and happiness to a pit of despair, regret, and complete misanthropy. I have fallen out with my mother to an irreparable degree. It was back when I made the mistake of showing people what was truly on my mind, such as this. Whenever I have told the truth, I suffer the consequence of being forced to a cell. Unfortunately for myself, I could not bear the tolls of being conscious, and was too weak to commit suicide. When she read my medical records, which have kept track of my thoughts, suicide attempts, and all the places I cut myself up, she could not speak to me. The confusion I have as to whether I see my mother as a good or bad person has frequently brought me to tears, and I become quite literally petrified by confusion. I have these confusions for many other important things to myself, and ending my life seems to be the best way of making the pain disappear.