I desperately want to die. I always have a facade of happiness, as if I’m bothered by nothing, and not even my family with whom most would say I have a good relationship can’t see through it. Sometimes I start to believe it too, but under my mask is an entire world of pain. I have not let out any of it since birth, and it never gets better, it just gets worse with time. Often all I can think about is dying. I can’t stop thinking about my own death. Sometimes I can’t focus on anything because I want to die. In a free association writing session, I kept repeating something along the lines of, “I want to die, but I can’t muster the energy necessary to kill myself. Help. Kill me.”