Recently, I’ve realised that I might actually be pretty depressed. All my thoughts have kind of gotten worse lately, and hardly a day goes by where I don’t consider killing myself. I’ve had two breakdowns in front of my friends now, one today, and I’m so embarrassed. I always try to keep my mind to myself because I know everyone else has their own problems. When it all spills out, I hate it, because I feel like an inconvenience and like I’m making a scene. I can practically feel them all judging me. I tried talking to one of my friends about it, but chickened out after 2 minutes of talking and never brought it u again. Today, I brought a book I got as a gift from my father into school to destroy it without my mother and stepdad’s knowledge. The kid I got to destroy it decided to be a d*ck, and read out some of the note on it. Once I said who it was from, he just started breaking it like I asked. Some girls who, to be honest, have been pretty horrible to me in the past, found it and asked me about it. I cried. I hate myself for crying. I wish I wasn’t so weak and pathetic. They’d all be better off without me. That kid I told about this shouldn’t have ever known. It’s unnecessary pressure for him that I can’t put on him. They’d all be better off if I was dead. I talk a lot about wanting to die, but act like it’s a joke. I’m gen Z and most of my friends are depressed, so no one sees it as anything else. The only reason I’m still alive is because I’m scared of death. I’m getting less afraid, though. Maybe one day I’ll actually end my miserable existence. That would be great, to finally be able to leave this horrible life behind. They won’t miss me. They’ll get over it. It’s not like I’m worth mourning. I wish I was dead. Anyway, enough of my rambling. Thanks for reading the confession of a 13-year-old that hates her life!