Lately when someone asks me if I’m okay, my response is something akin to, “I’ll neve be okay again, but I’m alive so I guess I’ll suffer through it.”

My life has never been particularly bad, I’ve always had people around me that tell me they love me and care about me, but very rarely act that way. Throughout it all I’ve always found someone to lean on that actually shows some level of concern, but as I get older, those people have drifted away from me, physically and sentimentally.

I’ve never felt more alone in life than I do now, even with a person or two that might actually care, I know they have their own lives that take precedent over me, and thus I will end up alone anyway.

I can’t do anything to fix it, because factually, I can’t do anything right or commendable. Even when I’m doing things I’ve done flawlessly in the past, I find a way to screw up somehow and make my whole life worse, and my support network (what little there is) shrinks every day.

So I’m stuck in place, crying myself to sleep every night, hoping to whatever people call ‘God,’ that I won’t wake up. Then I cry even harder because there are people and things that I care about more than myself, but which I will never be able to do anything for.

I refuse to kill myself because of my sentimental debt to them, but if I can do nothing to help or honor them, then why shouldn’t I just end it all, and hope that fate treats them better than it has me? If I’m doing nothing right by being alive, what does it matter if I’m dead?

I hate the world, and generally, but not in totality, I hate people. I hate my life and I hate myself to the very absolute core of my existence. I just want all the pain to end.