As you might have guessed, I had another appointment with my..

As you might have guessed, I had another appointment with my psychiatrist yesterday. For new followers: I have clinical depression. I told her that overall, things are okay — I run my blog, my days are filled with various pleasant activities, I go to the gym regularly, take care of my beloved pellet boiler, and so on. But she also asked about suicidal thoughts, and I told her the truth: every day, constantly. I mean, I’m not going to lie. She wasn’t happy with that answer and increased my dosage.

What else could I say? I’ve been dreaming of suicide since I was 13. I’ve never attempted it because I’m not the type to act out or seek attention. I don’t want people to notice me — I just want to end it, once and for all. But I can’t, because I feel responsible — for my mom, for the dogs. And beyond that, I have no reason to keep living. I don’t like life; it’s not for me. I feel too much, get unbearably exhausted too quickly. For me, studying and working aren’t just unpleasant routines; they’re terrifying ordeals. Any high achievements I’ve managed to reach have come at the cost of exhausting, soul-crushing effort. And none of it was ever extraordinary. I’m just like a disabled person — but mentally.

I envy people who can sit through three-hour lectures or work a full day. My brain just shuts down, becomes unbearably heavy, like a stone, after just half an hour. And the worst part? I can’t even openly call this “disability.” It just looks like laziness — so much so that even I sometimes believe it until I find myself among other people — normal, capable people — and realize how different I am.

So why should I want to live? The world is ugly, gray. The vast majority of people are moral degenerates or outright monsters. You have to pay insane amounts just to meet basic human needs. If you build a home with your own hands, you still have to pay the government for the right to live in it — a government that does nothing for you, only cranking up the levels of theft year after year. The world is full of filth, poverty, murder, and violence — yet the right to life and to have children is considered basic and inviolable, even for such “people.”

Everything around us is aging, dying. And it usually dies through horrific illnesses. You, too, are covered in wrinkles, more and more each day, and you realize you’ve never even been happy. You crave love and mutual affection more than anything in the world, but you’re so pitiful that you can’t even love yourself. To survive — just to have money for some small pleasures — you have to destroy yourself daily, crush your own soul, wake up in the morning to a completely insane schedule. You do meaningless work or studies bogged down with so much bureaucracy that they’ve lost all purpose. You listen to the idiocy of fools who hold power only because they’re someone’s brother, sister, friend or lover.

You have no way to change anything because the individual has become pathetically insignificant in this enormous meat grinder. I didn’t choose this life. I don’t want it. No matter how “healthy” I might be in terms of neurotransmitters, I will never want this. I won’t want to eat shit, whether my stomach is sick or perfectly healthy. Shit is still shit.

On a lighter note, those instant noodles I had for breakfast? They were pretty great.