I'm my own worst enemy, my own terminal illness, my own destruction. I'm at war with this being that has one desire, and that is my demise. Like slow, willful suicide, or murder. And I'm so alone in this war, so overwhelmingly trapped in solitude; caged in my own head, where the battle fields are the bloodiest. Everything in me wants to blame this pain on someone or something else; some childhood trauma or deep psychological void no one ever cared to fill; like a baby left crying and to fend for itself, it sits in its crib, tears running down its face, until finally the child puts its self to sleep, yet not without the headache from unanswered wails. But eventually an infant becomes a child and a child a young adult who must take responsibility for the decisions she makes, no matter how much she wishes not to. Yet, my excuses are not excuses at all, merely attempts at throwing of the blame, or cementing my fate I suppose. Either way, I'm so lost in this battle and death seems sure to ensue. But, not even a tolerable death, as ironic as "a tolerable death" may sound. Not even a death like a knife through the heart or a bullet through the head, instead a slow death lasting years or maybe decades. A death in life. Dying piece by piece until when the moment comes that the heart stops beating, there appears to be nothing left behind besides a heap of torn cloths. Not a body, not a soul, just a heap of death. The trash of society, the type of person some may see from a distance and look so far down upon that the receiver of the look is forced to look down even upon themselves.

I feel so destined to fail, though I have no idea what success truly is. Some say success resides in religion and faith, others say it rests in a meaningful career or in "making a difference"; but, at the risk of sounding unbecomingly pessimistic or dark, is not death the final outcome of success as well? I'm failing to see the true benefit of success, it feels like a lost cause. My life feels like a lost cause, hopeless. And yet there is still that part that is so deep now, or maybe nearly nonexistent, that wants to make a difference. That wants to travel the world, that desires to improve the lives of orphans in Romania, that wants to be educated, both academically, and in those ways that you only learn through experiencing this world. But none of those things will ever happen. Because I am genetically dispositioned to be a "failure". And because it is already too late. I tasted a world that sickens me. A world so much different, yet so much the same from the life I once dreamed of having. I was never privileged to go to a good school, or join a club, or girl-scouts, or play a sport, or go to camp; so I rebelled. I did what I didn’t need help to do. I was bored and alone and frustrated. Bored with school, where assignments couldn’t be tailored to every students needs, so I was told to do assignments I considered mindlessly tasking and therefore not worth my time; so I quit working. And I quit my parents religion, because it was a faith I never accepted in my heart anyway.

And I made the worst mistake of my life, I started abusing substances. Getting bored with one and moving on to another, more intense. When alcohol, weed, and dextromethorphan lost their fun, I kissed crack cocaine and ecstasy, and shook hands with crystal meth. And I’m so afraid of myself. So afraid of the life I feel destined to live. So afraid of what will happen when I become “bored” again; and wondering when needles will come and when I will befriend heroin. But then, what is next? Death? Yes. But, its as if I have no choice. Because although thinking about chemicals gives me panic attacks and my body shakes and my hands get clammy, I still have this deeply imbedded craving for it. A craving I cannot say no to. It would be like trying to tell the sun not to rise, it may not raise for a few hours but eventually it will, it is a constant. My failures are a constant. As if the choice isn’t even mine. Besides, I hate myself when I am sober. That seems to be when the war in my mind is the bloodiest. When I hate myself the most. When I pull out my hair over my past, things I have done and things that have happened to me or those I know.

And I just want to die, for everything existence is not.

this is very much on the wrong board I think....I apologize....