Tonight I realised that, in one way or another, I have wanted to kill myself for the last seven years. Nobody has ever known that I have felt this way. The people I have known who have threatened to commit suicide were treated like they were crazy. I am not crazy. I have thought about it a lot, the way most other people think about what grad school they want to attend. There are reasons why I want to do it, and reasons why I haven't yet. I am twenty-one years old. I have never done anything that I am proud of. I am ashamed of the person I am; my flaws are gargantuan and my merits are scant. My life is neither interesting nor tragic; I grew up lower-middle class in a small town, and my parents scraped together enough money each month to pay for my piano lessons. I believe that I am incapable of having real relationships, and that makes me incredibly sad. Maybe, if I hadn't spent most of the last decade actively pushing people away, I wouldn't be up at three o'clock in the morning, thinking of getting the X-Acto knife out and running myself a warm bath. Maybe, if I'd been able to find some kind of meaning in life, I wouldn't want to die. As I said earlier, though, there are a lot of reasons why I haven't yet. I think it would make my mum sad. I don't want that; she doesn't deserve to be sadder than she already is. And, I think I hold on to the idea that maybe there is some kind of meaning in existence. And I don't think I could stop my family members from holding a poorly-attended funeral that I wouldn't have wanted anyway. But, I'm also a little scared of dying.