For as long as I can remember, I’ve never wanted to be alive. I never asked for this. High school was the worst. I never imaged I’d make it into my 20s, and some of my classmates believed I had not. Every decade that passes is a surprise to me. A surprise that I’ve made it that far. I’ve constantly contemplated suicide, but only once came close to doing it. I guess I’m just a coward. Now, I’m closing in on 60 years and all I think about is not what a waste of life I’ve had, but rather all the mistakes, misspokes, misdeeds, and people I’ve disrespected along the way. How everyone’s life would probably have been (maybe just a little, but probably a lot) better had I not been in them. Every night these memories haunt me, all the way back to kindergarten – the earliest I can remember: of picking up a kid and accidentally dropping him on the floor. He was not injured, but it did hurt. And I still remember and regret it. Those and the dozens, probably hundreds, of other memories of bad decisions, hurtful words, bad deeds, that swirl in my head every night. When I read about someone dying, the first thought that pops into my mind is “Lucky Bastard”.
Religion. Most religions, teach of “Life ever-after”. I truly hope they are wrong. I want it to be OVER. I don’t want to be haunted and tormented by my misdeeds, however trivial, for all eternity. I want to forget. I want to disappear. I want to go back to the nothing from whence I came. I don’t want any marker, headstone or memorial for me. I want to be forgotten. And I sure don’t want to “start over”. Please, no reincarnation. One living hell is enough for me. Let me sink back into the earth and become food for something else to feed on. Maybe that way there might be some redemption and finality.