I am 17 years old. Some people will say I am pretty young, but I haven’t accomplished anything in my life. There is not one thing I have striven to achieve. There is nothing in the world I own, except for a few books. There is not one person who can say that I have changed their life. There is not one person who can say that I have made their life better. There is not one person I can call my own. If my family is reading this, I’m sorry for being a burden to you. I’m sorry for making you all cry. I have always broken your trust. But you haven’t given me the freedom I need. You all haven’t looked at my needs. Constantly breathing down my neck, I felt suffocated. And chained. But I don’t blame you for this. I don’t blame anyone for whatever mess my life is.
I don’t have any talents. My hobbies are reading books, listening to songs, and sleeping. I’m not even average. I’m less than average. I am a coward. I’m commitment-phobic. I hate confrontations. I am a liar. I am a failure. The simplest thing in the world to do, to live, and I fail at it. I’m very sorry. Very very sorry.
Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa.
I wish I had the courage to fatally cut myself. I wish I had the courage to drink an entire bottle of poison. I wish I had the courage to overdose properly. I wish I had the courage to fasten the noose around my neck. I wish I had the courage to jump from my 20th floor window. I wish I had the courage to jump in front of a train. Alas, I don’t.
I’m too sick and sad to write any more.
I’m so sorry. Will you forgive me?