Bed of Roses

There are two types of suicidal tendencies: the first, where you want to kill yourself so that everybody else will be sorry for all they did to you; and the second, where you want to die so you'll be less of a burden to the people around you.
I found myself lying in bed a moment ago thinking the latter. While I could attribute it to my hyperthyroidism, it is the culmination of my many "failures", all choosing to stare in my face at the same exact moment.
We had a few fellow farmers come into our village a few days back. I was tending to my rice seedlings when these expert farmers came to visit. They were renowed in their fields (haha).
It was clear that they had taken a liking to another young farmer across the street. She had been scouted by big agricultural companies and was working for one of the largest.
So I'm doing my planting and they come over to see how I did what I did. When they saw that I had placed the seedlings in tiny clay pots they screamed at my incompetence, loud enough for the entire village to hear. I was enraged, but my anger was impotent as they were the famous, and I the unheard of.
I planted in little clay pots because the soil of my village was wet and loose. I did it in order to allow the roots to find strength. The methods the experts were preaching were useful for their own colder and more mountainous climate.
I sat there embarassed that I was singled out for correction. I went home, lay on my bed and told my wife all that had happened, indignant that I did not receive any form of apology. She said that experts were always that way, and that it was I who should give in. I reasoned with her, and after a while I realised that it was me. She thinks I'm the one going nuts. She believed that I was the one who didn't know how to keep my farm, or never took care of the seedlings.
Finding no solace and stung by my bedside companion who lay there nonchalantly reading a scroll, I came here to rant.
I came here to rant so that the bad thoughts would go away.

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