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My grandpa killed himself when I was 14. Admittedly, I don’t think about him too often now, but his death left an everlasting impression on me.

I wouldn’t call myself suicidal because I would never kill myself, but those thoughts ring around my head constantly. I miss my psychiatrist.

I love life. I love the simple pleasures. I love hanging out with my friends. I love walking around on a sunny day with the Beach Boys in my ear. I love riding my bike. I love seeing the world. I love the kids at my job. Every day, I wish I were in their position. I want to go back to being 12 with a big family and birthday parties every month.

The feelings of inadequacy, insecurity, and self-hatred ring around my head. Sometimes it’s all I can think about. Even though I’ve accomplished so much it never feels like enough. The world that we live in today is quite frankly terrible, and it’s getting harder to see a positive future as technology progresses and people get dumber. I can’t handle stress. I can’t handle change. Although I’ve been taught to get my shit done (which I always do), these feelings don’t go way.

If anything, I would like to thank Billy for showing me how lame suicide is. My grandma hasn’t been the same since. That day was the first day I saw my dad actually cry. What happened was fucked up and I could never do that to anybody. I’m such a people pleaser. I hope one day I can figure out why life is worth living, but for now I will continue to get my shit done.