I have carefully calculated that the pain of me living as the bloody disaster that is myself
is greater than the pain anyone else will feel if I were to die.
In fact, I’m sure it would be a relief. I’m not useful to anyone. I was bad at work.
I have disappointed everyone. I am a waste of a carbon footprint, to be honest. I hurt people.
I have no one left. Not even poor old Volts, who died because I couldn’t look after a cat properly.
I want to die. My life is a disaster. And I want it to end. I am not cut out for living.
And there is no point going through all this. Because I am clearly destined to be unhappy in other lives too.
That is just me. I add nothing. I am wallowing in self-pity. I want to die.
Mrs Elm studied Nora hard, as if reading a passage in a book she had read before but had just found it contained a new meaning.
‘Want,’ she told her, in a measured tone, ‘is an interesting word. It means lack.
Sometimes if we fill that lack with something else the original want disappears entirely.
Maybe you have a lack problem rather than a want problem. Maybe there is a life that you really want to live.’
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