My parents are proud of me. They were proud when I graduated high school, proud when I earned my eagle scout award. Hell, they were proud when I got into this state school that accepts literally everyone.
I can't bear to tell them the truth. I look at those accomplishments and all I see are the years and years of pain and lonliness, all the missed opportunities, and all the times I wanted to end it.
What I didn't say in my original comment was that I almost didn't come home that night. I sat in the parking lot with the knife I keep in my car open, just staring at my reflection in the metal. The only thing that got me back that night was imagining my mother's reflection in that knife the next morning when they found my body. I imagined that it would all finally hit her; she would no longer be able to ignore the pain I tried to hide from her.
I'm ashamed of who I am, who my parents think I am, and who I will never be.