Part of me is wishing that I'd succeeded in killing myself in grade 12, back when my dad was still proud of me. He was the one who interrupted the attempt, albeit unknowingly.
He wasn't there when I needed his protection the most. I know why he wasn't there, but also... why wasn't he there? He's been there for all of my younger siblings. If I've been doing something wrong, then I must have been doing it since I was a baby.
I don't even know if he'll be sad when I go.
And people had the audacity to wonder why I was so angry and had such bad separation anxiety that I had to be taken to a children's psychologist before I'd even entered kindergarten. Why I still, in the latter half of my 20s, have the object constancy of a two year-old.
Maybe if I wasn't so sick and traumatized, and got all of those degrees that he wanted me to get, then maybe he'd still think highly of me... but I really don't know. Even if that were the solution, it would still be unattainable *because* I'm so sick and traumatized, so really, there's no solution even remotely within reach. I truly believe that my life was rigged before it even really began.