I'm not ready.

The purpose of this blog was for me to chronicle, daily, my experiences being a housewife who suffers from mental illness so I can later inspire myself to write the book I've been dreaming of since I was ten. However, things are not going as planned. I can't bring myself to write daily because it makes me cry every time that I do. It's like by writing about it I can't ignore how fucked up my life is. Although, I don't think you can call it a life. I'm really just a waste of space that should have offed herself back when I had the courage to be "selfish" instead of half-assing it out of fear of leaving too much of a mess. I'm not ready to face reality because when I really think about things it gets me so depressed that killing myself seems like the best option. I'm not cut out for this world. It's funny to me how I cared and believed so much when I was a kid, but the world and the events of my life have left me a mere husk of the girl I once was. I wanted to be great. Not for fame or fortune, but great like Buddha, Confucius, Ghandi, and Martin Luther King to name a few. I wanted to inspire people to change the world for the better. I had such high hopes as a child. I wanted show that one person can make a difference, I wanted to be the first female president, I wanted to believe that racism no longer existed, and that separation of church and state was real. I wanted to be great. But now I'm content with a life of suffering and mediocrity. Now, I only have hopes of some random act removing me from the face of the Earth. Most people thank God for waking up in the morning, but I curse this being that I no longer believe in for possibly allowing me to wake up another day. I wanted to be great. Now, I just want to die quietly in my sleep.