So I think of killing myself daily: how to do it, why I'd do it, what would happen in my "absence." Mother continuously asks, "What do you have to be upset about? You have everything." Physically, she is right: I should be happy not to be starving or homeless. Why am I not? I am trying my best not to sound melodramatic or whiney here.

I am not sure if it's right to self-diagnose—since I end up at a different conclusion every time—but here's my attempt. The problem is that I feel stretched, pulled, and malformed because of it. What should I care about morally? What should I care about intellectually? What should I feel, or what should I be feeling right now? Each question leads me to two or more equally attractive answers, and—like some medieval torture device—it seems like I'd be torn apart at the seams.

These thoughts have become the business of everyday life, and thus they are "normal." According to the rest of the world, I shouldn't be like this and I certainly do not want to remain this way. It, however, doesn't seem to be changing any time soon. Sometimes 'I' feel alien to myself, like I'm looking at a character go about the business of fulfilling some story. What a bland story that would be.

I'm not sure what's going on. One minute I feel upset about the state of the world, and the next minute I feel upset about myself. After that, I start thinking about plans to finish my life off. Then, I'll start thinking about "what it'd be like to die." I'm not sure it'd be "like" anything—it wouldn't "be" anything at all, I suppose. Bah.

What's wrong with me?