Hi, I'm new here and actually, I wanted to share this with somebody. I have no idea why. Please read all of it word for word, take it seriously, etc. I've been diagnosed(? I guess that's the right term) with clinical depression and I'm confused. There’s always that positive side of depression –you could do whatever the hell you feel like doing, as if it is your last day alive. Many people look upon this in a positive manner, but not from the perspective that people do what they wish because they are aware they could end their life at any moment they choose. Personally, I do believe that I am a bad person—meaning that I find myself worse than many more people. There is some good in me, but the evil overriding this good is not acceptable. I insult, I tease, I purposely make people feel like shit, and I selfishly lust the desire to see people in pain. I don’t forgive, nor do I forget in 90%+ of the circumstances that I actually consider. People view me as though I fit a position of a high chair, though I obviously do not. What “logic” do I have, exactly? Math, Science-okay maybe I do achieve scores that best a good 90% of students in the nation. But what logic does someone have if he could care less about life? The idea that life is abundant, and that therefore a small loss is insignificant, that life is meaningless in the end because no one really cares about those who are dead so much as to those who are alive. We move on with our lives because backtracking on the past doesn’t change the past; well the most of us at least, I suppose. So life isn’t so much a big deal. This idea is not the reason for me to commit any though to suicide though, or to the malicious murder of others. Maybe though, if it were a big deal, I might not wander into such a depressing thought. So I realize, this is very disorganized. The idea I attempted to underscore was simple: I think I might be finding more of a reason to end my life. Maybe if I restricted from being myself on acts that are potentially vicious and disruptive, I would not feel this way. But to act out of my own accord would be hypocritical of me – I admire those who act honestly rather than against their own will. Otherwise, I couldn’t easily or completely be able to characterize someone correctly. So for those who say “You really don’t know who I am”—those are the people that act against who they really are to appeal to the people around them, or for other reasons such as the one which I consider. Maybe it is better for everyone else, and for oneself. But I don’t necessarily wish to see someone becoming my friend under the impression that I’m Mr. Nice-guy when I’m really not, and which they may have to see when I lose control. And from what then? I feel the uttermost guilt, that I should not have faked my outward appearance and actions. Though it wasn’t to make friends that would inevitably hate me, but to control myself from pondering harmful ideas, I take all the responsibility. So now I’m stuck. I try my best to tell others that I really am a bad person, but they just retort with the “You really aren’t, you help me and such.” Well they don’t really know me. I’m containing these atrocious attitudes. But when I sink into a severe depression, I unleash them. And it is terrible. I want to have friends, but I know they hate me for who I am. But for what they like about me is what they crave, so they remain in my friendship, denying self-humiliation I inflict upon myself. I find it difficult to wonder how anyone could be my friend. Oh, but of course, my parents tell me about how bad I am. And some of it is true. Well most of it WAS true, until they started making up a whole lot of shit to ridicule me. And from their pressure, I sink deeper into the atmosphere of death, of course. Now I could understand that people associate death with “badness” and whatever, and that “Oh, he wants to hear the truth that he’s bad (sorry for lack of words) but when he does he gets depressed and it is kind of like he wants to be depressed, wtf?” Well I don’t really want to be depressed, I want to be dead. So to be honest, my worst enemies are my friends that make me want to live. And of course like I said earlier, I wanted friends. So that puts me into a state of confusion: Why DO I want friends, anyway? I hate boredom. That’s why. Boredom happens to be hell worse than death, while friendship provides the little means of happiness I ever get. I could either choose friendship or death, and so far it is been difficult to choose death over friendship with all the sorrow I feel prior to doing anything “rash”—the sorrow for my friends that don’t deserve any pains from my death. What could I possibly do?