So, I don't think I told you that the cysts are actual tumors. Benign tumors, at that. Meaning, they're not cancerous. At least, that's what the gynecologist thinks. My dad seems to still be worried that they are cancerous.

I want them to be cancerous.

Call me fucked up if you want, but think about it. I want to not be alive. But I can't kill myself. Either I'm not strong enough, or I'm too strong. But whatever it is, I just can't do it. Maybe I just don't have the energy. I'm too tired and weak to do it. That's what it is. I'm not strong enough.

And suicide, what a selfish way to die. Oh, poor thing, world got too tough on you? Welcome to fucking reality. That's the way I see it. Even people who have been abused and tormented through life, suicide is the weak way out. Fight up for yourself. I probably should do that, too. I mean, my life isn't that bad. But whatever the hell is wrong with me makes it feel like it's so much worse than it really is. I lay in bed sometimes at night, thinking of how pointless life is. Mine in particular. I'm not really good at anything. I'm a mediocre writer. I can't understand and analyze the stories we read in class; what makes me think I can make it as an editor? I take things as face value, and I don't think deep or critically about anything. Writing was the only thing I had passion for. So what's left? I already turned away from being a veterinarian; I'm not a science person. (Though I find space science very interesting.) I'm not smart enough, scientifically, to go into that field, though. I'm not a research person. I hate it. That rules out science in general, even social sciences. Wanting to be a psychologist? I failed Psychology class. I'm failing Sociology now. Social sciences aren't my forté either. I'm, like, out of options in life. I'm not even cut out for waitressing. I'm way too socially awkward and terrified of the world.

So what do I do? I'm wasting my time at college. I'm wasting my life. I'm a living soul who has wasted the beautiful opportunity that is life. I'm not social. I'm wasting away in my room, letting my mind melt to goo with useless video games and television shows. I've already fucked up my hearing by listening to music too loud through headphones. In complete silence, I hear a ringing in the back of my ears. It's not that loud, but I can't hear the silence of night sometimes. Sometimes, when people talk, I can't hear them.

I'm really a waste of a human being. And I hate human beings, so that makes it worse.

Sometimes I cry about my life. About how worthless I am. And this unbearable, unshakable fear that the only way out of this mess offing myself doesn't make me do anything. It doesn't make me want to fix myself, my life. It doesn't make me want to commit suicide before I really fuck up my financial situation a lot more. (College is so fucking expensive. And with my horrible resumé, I'm never going to get a good job to pay it off.) My parents aren't going to live forever. I can't live with them for the rest of my life. And it's not even like I can marry rich. You need to be attractive for that, which I'm not. And with my social awkwardness, I'm never going to even find a guy. I've had one boyfriend my entire life. That lasted for a month. I couldn't handle it. It just felt so weird and unnatural. I didn't know what to do. I freaked out, and broke up with him over AIM. And other guys in my life? I either fucked it up, or freaked out and pushed them away. Maybe the whole Ethan thing, I fucked up on purpose subconsciously, because I was terrified of a relationship.

All I know is that I'm a complete fuck up. I'm a waste of a life. All I do is waste resources, space, and time. There's a better human being out there somewhere who could use the air I breathe, the food I eat, the bed I sleep in, the clothes I wear.

Sometimes I think I should go see a therapist to talk about these issues. But, in order for someone to help you, you have to want to help yourself. I don't want to. I just want it to be over. But I don't know how to do that. I'm way too chickenshit to kill myself. I just can't do it. I almost did once. Maybe other times, but they just weren't significant enough to be committed to memory. All I know is that I want to have terminal (I have to specify—I don't want a cancer than can be removed with yet another surgery; I've had enough fucking surgeries in my life) cancer so that I can die in a way that's not just a weak escape. But is wanting to have cancer weak? I feel like it's almost exploiting something most (normal) people fear. People who are unfortunate enough to develop it and live to tell about it are survivors. They're strong people. But is wanting to have it, and wanting to succumb to it, almost spitting in their faces? I don't know. I just don't fucking know anymore. I just want to not be here. But I can't do it.