#heather's declarations

I have summoned my courage. To do something good. Finally, to do the world some sort of service, no matter how small, that would outweigh my horrid desires. There are so many things I thought this would be. Private on paper, or sent out on millions of screens of people who’d never know. Because one day, I was to be famous. Of course I would. Egotistical selfish thing I am. But this is different. In between. Most normal people would not address this to you—this would be personal, private, to people I truly know. But I know how that would end. You all know more. This is less sudden for you. I have overshared, immensely. So you know. They don't. You are safer because you are kinder. I do not fear punishment if I survive. You will simply forget me. You should. You have been so accepting and kind, and have been nothing but wretched in return. That is a horrible sin that can not be forgiven.

I contribute nothing. I post art, but that has always been trite and inconsequential. It’s not of any sort of quality, anyway, especially not compared to the joy you all have given me with your works. But that doesn’t matter. I could be the best artist to live, hell, I could just be half-way decent, but that would not make me worth anything. For a while I thought it would. Just another A. Just another note. Just an award. Just a state qual. Just a nat qual. Just a Stanford admit. Just a good job. Just an online presence. With one or all of these things in the future, I thought, I would be happy, but that was a foolish thought. Nothing could cure the personal rot inside me. I am so worthless and talentless that I could never achieve these things, at least without cheating out a worthwhile, qualified, good person for them, but still, I dream. This dream is idiotic. I give nothing to others. I am not a good person. I know not how to help someone in need, how to put my needs under someone else's, how to be a good friend, partner, lover. I am an utter failure in every regard, and the world made sure I knew this fact. I have no close friends, everyone secretly loathes me, are completely apathetic towards me, or doesn’t know I exist. Even those who claim to love me do so out of family obligation or at their own detriment, for I give nothing. I am a liar, who uses others' empathy to gain attention, the one thing I want. If you think you like talking to me, I sincerely don't know why. But I trust your judgment. If I have built a good enough facade to deceive a person of great soul, loving heart, and sound mind, then I am disgusted with myself further. You just don’t know. How I can give nothing in a time of need. Or how I add nothing to conversation, and simply parrot others in a vain attempt to be liked. You know me, desperately trying to mirror your kindness. If you think I am worthwhile, know that it is only because you are a wonderful person. I respect you deeply, and I apologize for all that I have taken from you—your time, your worry, your words, your deft hand, I’m sorry. I know it is not enough but I am sorry.

You all have been so kind to me. It is unbearable agony, to watch me extort your time and thought out of you. To manipulate you for attention. I don’t want to hurt you. I am a wretch, so I hurt, take, but never give, but there is a small spark somewhere in my mind—the very same that helped me summon the courage to do this deed—that hurt wherever I hurt you. Your kindness, in these final moments, is not forgotten. Neither is your advice. I have weighted it heavily in my mind. I do not wish to burden you with more worry. Since I can give anything of value, I can only speak to complain. I can’t bear to hurt you that way. I am a permanent problem. I must be fixed. And I’ve tried so many things, but my rot is inherent and incurable. It should not be cured; I have already hurt so many that I should be rightly punished. 

It's all so pathetic of me. But I needn’t be pathetic any more. I needn’t be. If you have read this far, you must have a great sense of curiosity, or are one of the few I have deceived. For this I am sorry. I will give my apologies, and my final wishes. I am sorry for hurting you, I am sorry for annoying you, I am sorry for making you read this, I am sorry for hurting you more, if this upsets you. Please don’t be upset. You haven’t done anything wrong. No words could have stopped me—you words only delayed the inevitable, and do not fret over if you could have changed this. This is no one’s fault but my own. My actions are selfish because I am a disgusting, selfish person. I take full responsibility. Turn me into a joke, or story, if you do not forget me. A demonstration of your long experience online. But otherwise, forget me. You should care or pity me enough to. I am horrible, and not worth remembering. You are all so kind. The kindest people I know. Please do not waste time thinking about this. Or me. I wish I could repay your kindness. I think this is the only way I know how.

It is hard, at least my cowardice, to get a fatal deep wrist injury. But it is the only method available to me. But these wounds are often nonlethal. Of course this is the way I die. I only want attention. Love and praise and reassurance. I just want an attempt where I go to the hospital, which means I am truly mentally ill and people will finally flock to me, since the cutting and the pills and the cries weren't enough. I am exploiting your kindness. So listen, I beg, to my final wish. If I survive, I sincerely pray I don’t, but the odds are against me, I will come back, and beg for attention and forgiveness. I will beg for love, and for you not to leave me, and for you to forget this all and pretend I’m normal, so we can have a normal (parasocial) relationship again. I post and I hurt you. Don’t listen to me. Tell me what I deserve so that I may try again. Leave. Don’t hurt yourself by caring, or listening to that vile thing. Hate it. Kill it, and you should. Disregard its pleas, which will be incredibly desperate. Keep yourself happy and do the world a good.