My parents killed themselves
It was so many years ago. I was a child. I'm an adult now. Relatively normal. Seemingly well adjusted. People who don't know me assume at my age that my parents are still alive. But they're not. When I was a kid my father shot himself in the head. I found his body. A few years later my mother's drug addiction finally consumed her and she overdosed. I guess it's an indirect suicide. The few people who know how my parents died think it doesn't bother me. Even the ones who do know have no idea of how many nightmares I had where my father's body was lying there and the blood was gushing from his head. I spent the last few years of my youth in foster homes under the care of people who told me they only let me live there because they felt sorry for me. Or because they wanted to feel good about themselves by helping the poor foster children that nobody wanted. I sometimes wonder if I'm meant to just end it all too. I just don't know what the point of living is anyway. Yet I'm the one who listens to everyone else's problems and gives advice. People think I'm the wise one. So together. I'm not. If I ever thought I was I was kidding myself. What's the point? I can't tell everyone everything will be alright when I don't believe it myself. I keep telling myself that one day things will be better, that I'm my own person. But I have no one to live for but myself. If the future is nothing but emptiness and pain then why torture myself?