I need to die. By the end of the weekend, I have to be dead. I cannot face work on Tuesday. I cannot face the constant anxiety, constant terror, constant worry about what the hell I’m meant to be doing. I will never cope in this life, I will never be free from the horrible horrible feelings. I am not worth the air I breathe. I am a waste of everyone’s time. I hate myself for not going through with this before, when I’ve had the chance. Being alive only ever leads to pain, worry, fear. What’s the point? Everyone dies. Why can’t I have the choice of where and when? I’m writing out a note now so people know where I would like my stuff to go. No-one will think anything’s particularly wrong for a good few days – and by then, it’ll be too late. I just had to let someone know, someone who doesn’t know me, doesn’t know where I am or who I am.