how do I cope with the fact that I've lost the ability to do the one thing I was put on this earth to do? I was supposed to be a novelist, but a few years back I had a stroke and completely lost the ability to write prose or dialog without having a seizure.

Even before the stroke I didn't really like being alive. I've had chronic depression since second grade and the only reason I've avoided killing myself for this long is that I feel obligated to stay alive for my parents sake. Writing was the one thing that really gave my life a sense of purpose–not happiness per se, but something I wanted to do with my life besides end it. Now it's permanently out of reach and every day it gets a little harder to keep going.

I'm starting to actually resent my parents for forcing me to live this long, and every time we have an argument I debate whether I really owe them this much when I never really wanted to be here in the first place.