I’m done.

I hate myself.

There. I said it. I look and see people and the adventures they’re off on. It’s amazing. They’re falling in love. They’re off to new heights that they, themselves never dreamed of. Across the world they soar.

I cannot help myself but wonder. What if I have been normal? I can’t help myself but to think that. What if I could play sports? I keep wondering. Would I have done better in school if I weren’t sick? The questions are nearly endless and they go on and on.

I an twenty-two years old. I have been through more trials in my life then people would ever fathom. I died. I suffer from incurable heart failure. I’ve had my aortic valve replaced. I got threatened with a gun. Several of my closest and best friends all have died. I never been in love. I have very few friends and become a hermit. I am far too dependent off my parents to make a living.

Why? Because of my health. My health prevents me from doing a lot of things. I was never allowed to play sports. I am not allowed to run. I am not allowed to lift more then fifteen pounds. I’m on a strict diet. I couldn’t afford college, my parents aren’t wealthy either. I didn’t grow up with every advantage in the world thrown at me. I grew up in a broken house-hold riddled with crime. I lived with an attempted murderer next to my bedroom. A brother that committed armed robbery, not once, but twice. Another brother that’s a drug dealer. Witnessed a parent cheat on my step father.

But, yet, out of all of this. I caused the most pain to my friends and family. At times I wish I had none. There are times I wish I ceased to exist. Would I be missed? By few. But, perhaps the world is better.

There was a very strong reason I refused to make friends for most of high school. My parents thought something was wrong with me. I was diagnosed with an okay mental capacity. Why did I refuse to make friends? It was my choice. When I was thirteen I lost a dear friend. I lost another dear friend not long after. In fact, they were kind of the only friends I actually had. When I started high school, I met an old friend from elementary school once again. I was pleased, but, I avoided others. I stuck to myself. I didn’t have friends to go to the movies with. People thought I was odd. People stared at me like something was wrong when I clutched my chest in pain.

I remember going to a baseball game. I was fifteen years old. Arguably that was the toughest summer of my life. It was the summer that defined whom I was. The summer that defined my character. The summer that shattered my entire world. It was the summer I came fully to the realization that I was gay. It was the summer when my health begun to fail once again. It was a summer of memories and yet… Terrible shame of myself.

That was the summer I had a stroke. A fifteen year old boy. A stroke. Massive pain in my chest. I collapsed to the ground. A crowd gathered, yet, nobody called for help. It was the first time I didn’t feel invisible. Someone my age spoke to me, “Dude. That sucks.” Those are the words that follow me to this very day, now, that I’m invisible once again. I was at a baseball game with my grandfather. I ruined the rest of my summer vacation by being in the hospital. It was the only sport I ever truly liked. The reason why? I felt like a normal teenage boy without a worry in the world. I had such high hopes for myself.

I hated being invisible. I had made some friends in my freshmen year of high school. I finally had a social life. When I went back, things got worse. My freshmen year had been great. It was the first time I nearly got all Straight As (Got a B in Art, which I sucked at). Sophomore year I got more jolts of pain. I kept getting sick, hence, a lot of absences. My family got kicked out of their home. And yet, my high school required things to be typed. My mother refused to let me use her computer. So, I couldn’t keep up with my homework anymore. My grades dropped. My tests were decent, grades dropped.

I had a teacher that was extremely shocked when she read an essay about me. She was shocked that I knew I was atheist. This teacher was the first person to ever make me question the being whom I was. She was the first teacher to get to know who I was. The first teacher to get down to my level and challenge me for what my mindset. I appreciated that more then anything. Oh, how I wish I can tell her how much she helped me.

I refused to make friends once again. One of my closest friends approached me one day. She finally understood when I was a junior. I had been taken away from school the previous day on an ambulance. She spoke to me and spoke a view point. The teacher that I admired so much, that challenged me and been a great friend, had told her what had happened. I had a bad heart. A very, very, bad heart. My friend found out from classmates when I was younger, that I had met the President of the United States… Through the Make-A-Wish Foundation. I hid my illness the best I could. But, the chest pain gave it away. There was nothing the doctors could do. I couldn’t even take pain medications.

It was the day that I actually stopped avoiding her. I’ve been avoiding my friends. I didn’t want any friends. I knew I’d probably never make it to adulthood. I’d die at a young age and be forgotten by the world. I did not want anyone to get to know whom I was. What kind of person I was. I stayed away from people. I ate alone, or stuck with the Special Education kids because they were the only people in the world who could make me give a genuine smile. Why didn’t I want friends? I did not fear death. I knew I would die. I knew the pain it felt when you had a dear friend die. I suffered it multiple times. I did not want to inflict that pain upon anyone else. I wanted the entire world to forget me. I wanted to cease to exist. It would make it easier on everyone.

My health continued to decline. My junior year was in complete shambles. My grades were horrible. My mother grounded me for six months because she thought I was faking my chest pain. Though, the doctors did say I was really feeling the pain. My mother called me a hypochondriac. My pain became so frequent that when I experienced the pain, instead of sending me to the nurse the teachers would call for an ambulance immediately and notify the nurse last.

Oh. I had the most terrifying experience in my junior year. I couldn’t move my legs. My skin turned blue. I couldn’t breathe. A teacher I barely knew found me. She sat down next to me and gripped me into a hug and held onto me until the ambulance arrived. I would never forget that gesture. It saddened me she retired within a month, so, I never really had the opportunity to get to know her. At the hospital… The vice principal herself showed up to see how I was doing. The hospital kept me over night. The next day my mother became simply furious because of my supposed “lying”.

Senior year. There was finally a Gay-Straight Alliance club. I showed up one day, nervous as heck. I felt welcomed. People were kind. They treated me, as me. Myself. Not the kid that was always sick. The weird kid that has heart attacks. They treated me with respect. Before then, the only time I ever felt that way was when I volunteered to help during my breaks in the Special Education classroom. Not once did these people in the Gay-Straight Alliance asked my sexuality. They didn’t care. They never cared about that detail. I was seventeen years old in a world of hormone driven teenagers. I’d always look fondly and support these clubs with every fiber of my being.

Senior year wasn’t much better either. My grandfather died. I missed the first half of my first semester because I was in another state. I fell so far behind. Later my senior year, I was approached by my Biology teacher. He asked me if I’d be willing to spend a few days with a lady from the Blood Bank, for the school’s first blood drive. I agreed to it after some thinking. She had me talk about how blood transfusions saved my life.

The school was filled with rampart rumors about what I had. I explained to them I had a bad heart. I had life risking surgeries. Blood transfusions were the only option to make sure I get through the surgery as I’d lose so much blood. I was a reason why, people like them were called to donate. It was an amazing experience that I enjoyed. It relieved a lot of pressure.

One of my dear friends, whom I knew since elementary school died my senior year. She was in the special education class, but, that did not make her any less of a friend. She was an amazing person with an appetite for knowledge. Her last days were hard. She carried an oxygen tank to school. She died. Cystic fibrosis claimed her life. I hated this. I also hated the fact that the year before a football jock died and the whole school held a memorial. She was the second person to die in our school, and nobody but me seemed to care. After some arguing with the school, I got them to agree to a fundraiser in her memory. We got her a brick installed in the front of the school. Raised a lot of money for charities. They let me choose where. I choose 50% to Valley Childrens, the hospital that took care of us, and the other half to the Cystic Fibrosis foundation.

I never came out in high school. I never had someone I fell for. To this day, I never fell for someone. I simply won’t allow myself. I know what I am. I still don’t really want to accept it. Not long after high school, my health took a turn for the worst. Really bad. Really, really, bad. Constant pain. The doctors became increasingly worried. I graduated high school and the first thing I did was move to where my dad lived. I did that in a heart beat. My mother of course got mad. But, I had to do it. For me. My dad got me on social security insurance, so, I had a doctor look into my problem… A good doctor. She was freaked out as hell and immediately sent me to a cardiologist. The cardiologists did several tests and had me come back the next week.

His diagnosis: I needed an emergency surgery. They made arrangements with my last surgeon, as they’d prefer him to cut me open again. Though, I was eighteen… No longer a child, the surgeon agreed. They set a date and everything. Guess what happened when it approached? The great and awesome government of the United States of America rejected the surgery and dropped my insurance. It made my doctor mad. My dad found a lawyer and the lawyer sued on my behalf. It took eight months of fighting and finally a judge ruled in favor of me. I got my insurance. Did some more tests, and, actually collapsed two days before the test and I woke up during the middle of a cardiac cauterization screaming in pain and freaked out as hell.

The problem was far worse then they realized. Surgery happened, a lot far worse then they realized. The surgeon said I should have had this surgery done over a year previous. I actually died during that surgery. I bled to death, my inominate vein ripped apart in the first hour. The scar tissue attached itself to my chest cavity and my heart. The repairs wouldn’t hold, so they had to replace those parts. Finally, after, all of those years in pain they discovered the root cause. The surgery was a success, though, a very, very close one. A five hour surgery turned to over fifteen hours. I was in such bad shape that my surgeon wouldn’t leave my bed side and they kept, not a nurse, a doctor at my side for almost a week. I had a nurse at my side for two weeks, before I was moved to the general rooms to recover for another two weeks. I was in the hospital for thirty days total.

Now. I see my friends soaring through life. People my age marrying off. Falling in love. People starting to have their first children. People leading into huge careers, happy, moving to cities far from home. My dream has always been to move away and be on my own, alone. Someplace where I can be me… I envy these people. I envy them for being normal. If there is a god, I must ask, why has he forsaken me?

I’m fed up in this screwed up world. I can’t go anywhere. I can’t get a job. I can’t go back to school. My grades in high school were abysmal. Yet, nobody understands. I wasn’t one of the lucky sick kids born in a socialist country. I was born in a greedy country that would be pleased if I die, because I save the taxpayers money. I ran up millions in medical bills, I’m surprised they still bothered to pay for me.

I’m doing nothing with my life. I won’t have an effect on anyone. I’m tired of fighting. I’m tired of life itself. I’m simply tired. There are few pleasures left in the world for me. My health is stable for now. But, how long until I collapse again? When will my next stroke be? Will it get even worse? I’m done with fighting. If I get sick again, it’d be my last chance. I’m done. I don’t deserve to be on this earth, nor have I ever been.

Why did I have to be sick? Why did I have to survive? Why did my best friends die, but not me? Why was I the survivor of my friends? Why am I the last one left? Why couldn’t I be normal? Why? Why? Why? Why? I wanted to be normal. I wanted to play sports. I wanted friends. I wanted to fall in love. I wanted many non material things… Things that people take for granted every day on this earth. I’m jealous. I envy everyone.

I’m simply done.