Yesterday, my mom was helping me with my homework. I was trying to write the words “health,” “money,” and “love” in red pen. I only managed to write “money,” but my mom got furious, thinking I was being mischievous. When clearly that wasn’t the case—I had no intention of ruining it. That’s when I got angry and told her, “You’ve never really known me,” and her reply, like a sharp weapon, was, “I could say the same about you.”
That night, I lay awake until 2 a.m., reflecting on my whole life, and the conclusion I reached was that I really am the villain of the story. No matter how hard I tried, I would never be a good person. Sometimes it takes me back to when I was 16; I hated my mother back in 2020. Every time I went to hug her, she always had the same excuse: “Are you just here to ask about your phone?” It was the same question she’d been asking ever since I got my phone at 13. That’s where my hatred began—not just toward my mother, but toward the world. Toward my hypocritical classmates, toward an idiot named Chacana (who made my life miserable in school). My mother thinks I’m like all kids—a rebel—when in reality I wasn’t. As I grew up and left high school, I realized I was the one to blame; I always punished myself by hitting myself.
Now, those memories and my mother’s words are what made me think I don’t deserve to live. I feel like I’m a burden to my mother, a freak to my two sisters. I wish I could leave this world, but I don’t have the courage to pick up a box cutter. I just want to disappear, for people to forget my name and my existence. My life is an absurd comedy, a joke from a cartoon series, but I’m the protagonist of a tragic novel.
Maybe that's why I'm alone—I'm unable to control my emotions or express what I'm feeling. Maybe I'm the villain in this story and I deserve to go to hell.
I'm sorry for encouraging you, for making you think that things are going well for me.