I want to die. I've wanted to for a long time. Before I wanted to I just knew it was going to be inevitable and I waited for the time to come. I've wanted to for a number of reasons. Some transient, some longer lasting. Most of them dependent upon life and it's challenges, and my ability to cope with them, or live with them. But one reason has always remained. One reason I can't escape. I can't mitigate or change no matter how much I try, or how much I want to. There is one thing there is no getting away from. Me. I've hated myself for a very long time. I've tried to make things better, easier; I've tried to make myself a better person. I've tried to fix all the things that made me so dislikable. So unlikeable. I've also tried to get over it, ignore those flaws, fix my mood and spend my time not dwelling on it. And in doing so I've had happy times and been lucky - had more than I deserve to be grateful for. But there will always be things about me to hate. The same things that, laughably, will push away the people who tried to love me despite them. I don't deserve to be bitter about my lot. I shouldn't insult others by pretending I've not been fortunate. I suppose my ingratitude can be added to my other sins. Because, God, I hate myself. I'm such a horrible person. I don't know how anyone could bear to be around me, because I sure can't. I'm considering suicide just to get away from myself. And the urge is so powerful I have to fight it. I have to control self-destructive impulses even though I see no other option. Even though there's no other way of getting away from myself. I have to stop myself because there are people who love me, who would be hurt. Who, unfathomably, say they would be more pained by my going than they are by my presence. But, those people, they get to not be with me all the time. The only space I get is when I'm asleep, and then I still wake up crying because I'm still there. For me, there is no reprieve.