Noctis
I wish I'd done it years ago
- Dec 15, 2021
- 308
I remember when I was four years old and I regularly tucked my penis between my legs and taped it there. My reasoning was my body would absorb it and I would become a girl.
I remember at six when I thought boys grew up to be women, and I was so happy. Then my dad told me boys grow up to be men, and I realized I was going to look like my dad, and not my mom, when I grew up. I had never been so sad at that point. I desperately wanted to be a woman.
Then at 10, I tried kissing my best friend. He pushed me away and said "Gross! That's gay!"
Around 16, I was fighting with my girlfriend and noticing I found some boys attractive. I told my mom that I was going to move to Vermont, find some guy named Gary and open a bed and breakfast with him. My mom immediately said "Oh no you are not." Why not, mom? What are you gong to do? Disown me? "Yes." That's what she said. To my face. To be a young teenager and learn your parent's love is not unconditional... it fucks you up.
Less than a year later, one of my mom's friends passed away. She was reading the obituary out loud in the kitchen. "She is survived by her husband, Paul, their daughter Sarah, and her husband Steve, as well as their son Jake and his partner Greg... oh. I didn't know her son was gay." Then my dad added "I've got a shotgun upstairs to make sure I'm not survived by some faggot son." As an adolescent boy who is already struggling with his Christian upbringing, faith, and sexuality, it really fucks you up to hear your dad say he'd rather kill you than let the world know you're gay.
Then I went to college and I was free from my parents. I started to experiment sexually, but I just hated myself afterwards. These feelings were disgusting and wrong. What I was doing was disgusting and wrong. I was disgusting and wrong.
I don't really remember when the suicidal thoughts started, but I know I was praying for God to kill me when I was in the fourth grade. I knew I couldn't do it myself, or I wouldn't get into heaven. So I stuck around. I was always miserable.
Then, the fear of hell wasn't enough to keep me here. I had to start finding any reason to stick around, like a new video game coming out, or graduation, or even just after my friend's birthday so he doesn't have to be sad on his birthday. There was never a real reason to stick around; only a reason to delay leaving. It got to where I stopped planning for the future. I mean, what's the point? I'll probably be dead next year, so what does it matter? I started living for the moment, and had no concept about the future. Most kids excitedly exclaim they'll be a fireman or astronaut or doctor when they grow up. Not me. I'm not growing up. I'll kill myself before 18, so who cares if my grades are terrible? Why bother thinking about what major I want? I mean, I'll be dead before I graduate. And why would I care about internships or summer jobs? I want to fuck around and enjoy my time. After all, I'm probably going to kill myself this year.
I remember getting a life insurance policy, and reading they only pay out on suicide if the policyholder has had the policy and been in good standing for two years. Two years? That was the longest I ever had a reason to stick around. I remember when that two year mark hit; I was so relieved that I could now kill myself whenever I needed.
But I didn't. I told myself things would get better when I had a stable job. Then maybe they'll get better when I get a few raises and live comfortably. Then maybe things will improve after I buy a house and have a space I own. And maybe this empty space will be warmer when I meet someone and we have a family.
Now, here I am. I'm 37 years old. I'm married. I have two dogs I love more than anything. I have a wife who repeatedly tells me she loves me. I have a good job that offers me lots of free time, and I make more money than 75% of all Americans, and I still hate my life. There's nothing else to look forward to. There's no point in your life where it magically gets better. I'm the problem, it's not my age, not my job, not my marital status...me.
I'm the reason I'm miserable. I'm the reason I want to die so much. I watch porn and I want to be that hot girl so bad. I look at other guys and I lust after them so hard my chest hurts. I see my penis and I hate it. But there's no way I'll ever say these things out loud. After all, these feelings are disgusting and wrong.
The entire deck was stacked against me from birth. I never had a chance at being happy. Maybe I wouldn't hate myself so much if I were normal, but that's not what happened. I'm me. I'm worthless. I hate myself. And things will never get better.
Thanks for reading this far. Sorry it wasn't more entertaining.
I remember at six when I thought boys grew up to be women, and I was so happy. Then my dad told me boys grow up to be men, and I realized I was going to look like my dad, and not my mom, when I grew up. I had never been so sad at that point. I desperately wanted to be a woman.
Then at 10, I tried kissing my best friend. He pushed me away and said "Gross! That's gay!"
Around 16, I was fighting with my girlfriend and noticing I found some boys attractive. I told my mom that I was going to move to Vermont, find some guy named Gary and open a bed and breakfast with him. My mom immediately said "Oh no you are not." Why not, mom? What are you gong to do? Disown me? "Yes." That's what she said. To my face. To be a young teenager and learn your parent's love is not unconditional... it fucks you up.
Less than a year later, one of my mom's friends passed away. She was reading the obituary out loud in the kitchen. "She is survived by her husband, Paul, their daughter Sarah, and her husband Steve, as well as their son Jake and his partner Greg... oh. I didn't know her son was gay." Then my dad added "I've got a shotgun upstairs to make sure I'm not survived by some faggot son." As an adolescent boy who is already struggling with his Christian upbringing, faith, and sexuality, it really fucks you up to hear your dad say he'd rather kill you than let the world know you're gay.
Then I went to college and I was free from my parents. I started to experiment sexually, but I just hated myself afterwards. These feelings were disgusting and wrong. What I was doing was disgusting and wrong. I was disgusting and wrong.
I don't really remember when the suicidal thoughts started, but I know I was praying for God to kill me when I was in the fourth grade. I knew I couldn't do it myself, or I wouldn't get into heaven. So I stuck around. I was always miserable.
Then, the fear of hell wasn't enough to keep me here. I had to start finding any reason to stick around, like a new video game coming out, or graduation, or even just after my friend's birthday so he doesn't have to be sad on his birthday. There was never a real reason to stick around; only a reason to delay leaving. It got to where I stopped planning for the future. I mean, what's the point? I'll probably be dead next year, so what does it matter? I started living for the moment, and had no concept about the future. Most kids excitedly exclaim they'll be a fireman or astronaut or doctor when they grow up. Not me. I'm not growing up. I'll kill myself before 18, so who cares if my grades are terrible? Why bother thinking about what major I want? I mean, I'll be dead before I graduate. And why would I care about internships or summer jobs? I want to fuck around and enjoy my time. After all, I'm probably going to kill myself this year.
I remember getting a life insurance policy, and reading they only pay out on suicide if the policyholder has had the policy and been in good standing for two years. Two years? That was the longest I ever had a reason to stick around. I remember when that two year mark hit; I was so relieved that I could now kill myself whenever I needed.
But I didn't. I told myself things would get better when I had a stable job. Then maybe they'll get better when I get a few raises and live comfortably. Then maybe things will improve after I buy a house and have a space I own. And maybe this empty space will be warmer when I meet someone and we have a family.
Now, here I am. I'm 37 years old. I'm married. I have two dogs I love more than anything. I have a wife who repeatedly tells me she loves me. I have a good job that offers me lots of free time, and I make more money than 75% of all Americans, and I still hate my life. There's nothing else to look forward to. There's no point in your life where it magically gets better. I'm the problem, it's not my age, not my job, not my marital status...me.
I'm the reason I'm miserable. I'm the reason I want to die so much. I watch porn and I want to be that hot girl so bad. I look at other guys and I lust after them so hard my chest hurts. I see my penis and I hate it. But there's no way I'll ever say these things out loud. After all, these feelings are disgusting and wrong.
The entire deck was stacked against me from birth. I never had a chance at being happy. Maybe I wouldn't hate myself so much if I were normal, but that's not what happened. I'm me. I'm worthless. I hate myself. And things will never get better.
Thanks for reading this far. Sorry it wasn't more entertaining.