quietpill
I get so jealous of euthanized dogs.
- Nov 27, 2024
- 47
I feel acutely like a hypocrite. Advising depressives I've known both online and in real life that life is hardship, that we endure to find (if not build) green pastures around the bend. I tell myself that after the next hard year and the one after that, I will make a breakthrough, I will introspect enough and -- god forbid -- heal, to meet the few people I am friends with on equal footing. Who have struggled with depression and mental health but still built long-term relationships, careers, and bought houses in spite of it.
The truth is that I've lost everything I've even remotely attempted or made progress in building over the past 5 years. I am re-learning my retail job but starting over with no seniority and less pay. I am sleeping on the thinnest futon in my brother's living room and fending off roaches like I'm a kid all over again. At least this time I have some semblance of a "bed", all that's missing is creepy old men to religiously text about feeding me to their dogs and other animals. The body and life I want and have attempted at grows more insurmountable every day, not without taking skin off the little friends and family willing to entertain me. I know that wallowing in the shadow of their financial success or stability to pathetic and selfish but I feel so backed into my tiny, dark hideyhole that their lives are like shiny baubles. Scuffed, sure. Damaged, yes. But something worth looking at.
I feel so hollowed out and useless. As if life were better when I was that kid, fulfilling the perverted fantasies of creeps. The truth is that I want to be fed to the dogs. If the ditches and gutters don't swallow me up first. I'm honestly surprised they haven't already. I suppose I haven't been inclined toward drugs like the rest of my less reputable family. I yearn for a knife. I want to soak up the blood and tend to my own wounds, I want to carve slurs and insults into my skin to feel good about them since I won't be getting anything else. There will be no love and intimacy for me, I preserve my body only to spare the few who look at me from the second hand shame and embarrassment. So, I'm out of practice and lacking the confidence and finesse to use the knife I desperately want now. Is it courage or cowardice that makes a successful suicide? I am not sure, and I'm terrified of another failure I can't hide to hang on like a meat hook.
I just can't see anything anymore. Optimism lasts for seconds, glimpsed vicariously through acquaintances and media that convinced me I might have a chance. Pragmatism tells me I should invest in a gun and blow my dead weight off the world's shoulders ( and my own). I don't think I've ever been able to lift my head up in my whole life and it seems less like it's worth trying all the time. My psuedo-personhood is so pathetic it's not really worth preserving and the patience of waiting for a gun is easy. SN seems NICE but complex, I prefer the certainty of a bullet as the days pass. Even if it might be impulsive, at least I might accomplish something for once. At least it would be over. And if the grass is greener where you water it, I'm a stupid fuck living in the desert.
I apologize to anyone who's taken the time to read this, if it seems disjointed and nonsensical.
The truth is that I've lost everything I've even remotely attempted or made progress in building over the past 5 years. I am re-learning my retail job but starting over with no seniority and less pay. I am sleeping on the thinnest futon in my brother's living room and fending off roaches like I'm a kid all over again. At least this time I have some semblance of a "bed", all that's missing is creepy old men to religiously text about feeding me to their dogs and other animals. The body and life I want and have attempted at grows more insurmountable every day, not without taking skin off the little friends and family willing to entertain me. I know that wallowing in the shadow of their financial success or stability to pathetic and selfish but I feel so backed into my tiny, dark hideyhole that their lives are like shiny baubles. Scuffed, sure. Damaged, yes. But something worth looking at.
I feel so hollowed out and useless. As if life were better when I was that kid, fulfilling the perverted fantasies of creeps. The truth is that I want to be fed to the dogs. If the ditches and gutters don't swallow me up first. I'm honestly surprised they haven't already. I suppose I haven't been inclined toward drugs like the rest of my less reputable family. I yearn for a knife. I want to soak up the blood and tend to my own wounds, I want to carve slurs and insults into my skin to feel good about them since I won't be getting anything else. There will be no love and intimacy for me, I preserve my body only to spare the few who look at me from the second hand shame and embarrassment. So, I'm out of practice and lacking the confidence and finesse to use the knife I desperately want now. Is it courage or cowardice that makes a successful suicide? I am not sure, and I'm terrified of another failure I can't hide to hang on like a meat hook.
I just can't see anything anymore. Optimism lasts for seconds, glimpsed vicariously through acquaintances and media that convinced me I might have a chance. Pragmatism tells me I should invest in a gun and blow my dead weight off the world's shoulders ( and my own). I don't think I've ever been able to lift my head up in my whole life and it seems less like it's worth trying all the time. My psuedo-personhood is so pathetic it's not really worth preserving and the patience of waiting for a gun is easy. SN seems NICE but complex, I prefer the certainty of a bullet as the days pass. Even if it might be impulsive, at least I might accomplish something for once. At least it would be over. And if the grass is greener where you water it, I'm a stupid fuck living in the desert.
I apologize to anyone who's taken the time to read this, if it seems disjointed and nonsensical.
