woofwag
Bad dog
- Sep 17, 2025
- 473
I wish I were dead. I wish I were dead. I wish I were dead.
It's all I fucking think anymore. I say it in my head only to have it be followed up by another voice with, "I wish we were dead too." So we're all in agreement then? What little is left of me aches for this and nothing else? I truly don't care about life having "meaning," but I do care about it having some modicum of fulfillment. And how dare anyone else tell me to hold out for that when all I can think of is my constant dissatisfaction with every single aspect of my life.
No one is going to save me, least of all myself. I don't have it in me to recover anymore and my mind knows it, as does my body. I think of suicide in every moment. While I eat. While I scroll. While I play games. While I shower. While I hug my friends. While I have sex. Every goddamn moment I am a ghost, haunting myself and this miasma of suicidal desires I am constantly mired in. And I'm supposed to pretend it'll all get better, that this is a mere blip in a lifetime of positive ascension from the depths of torture I exponentially fall into. It has, and will, only get worse.
I just rot these days. I'm a burden on those around me. I avoid them, am financially draining with seemingly no ability to get a job, and radiate general misery. Even more than them I am a burden to myself. No matter the pills I swallow or the kindness and motivation I attempt to impart on myself, I manage for no more than an hour in every couple of weeks to do anything more than sit alone in my room and think of death. It doesn't matter where I am or what I'm doing anyway. I am a ghost no matter what. Just a constant stream of craving for death.
It's no miracle I lived this long. It's only out of misinformed attempts, dissociation, obligation, and pure laziness that I am still here. That is no way to live. I am tired of enduring it. Those who love me will suffer through my death, but I am no longer willing to tolerate my own constant suffering to appease those around me. People can congratulate existence as being enough, but it is abundantly clear in the way people act that that is indeed not enough. I must work, talk, extend myself, and endure constant barrages of pain for people to be satisfied with me. I cannot show my true disastrous self because that is unacceptable to polite society. And honestly, I can't blame them; I know I am a burden. So for fucks sake, let me unburden myself permanently.
I can't handle the voices telling me to die. I can't handle my own voice wishing for it all the time. I hate to admit that I resent the people who care about me for expecting me to continue to haunt this world. That's not kindness. It's terror.
It's all I fucking think anymore. I say it in my head only to have it be followed up by another voice with, "I wish we were dead too." So we're all in agreement then? What little is left of me aches for this and nothing else? I truly don't care about life having "meaning," but I do care about it having some modicum of fulfillment. And how dare anyone else tell me to hold out for that when all I can think of is my constant dissatisfaction with every single aspect of my life.
No one is going to save me, least of all myself. I don't have it in me to recover anymore and my mind knows it, as does my body. I think of suicide in every moment. While I eat. While I scroll. While I play games. While I shower. While I hug my friends. While I have sex. Every goddamn moment I am a ghost, haunting myself and this miasma of suicidal desires I am constantly mired in. And I'm supposed to pretend it'll all get better, that this is a mere blip in a lifetime of positive ascension from the depths of torture I exponentially fall into. It has, and will, only get worse.
I just rot these days. I'm a burden on those around me. I avoid them, am financially draining with seemingly no ability to get a job, and radiate general misery. Even more than them I am a burden to myself. No matter the pills I swallow or the kindness and motivation I attempt to impart on myself, I manage for no more than an hour in every couple of weeks to do anything more than sit alone in my room and think of death. It doesn't matter where I am or what I'm doing anyway. I am a ghost no matter what. Just a constant stream of craving for death.
It's no miracle I lived this long. It's only out of misinformed attempts, dissociation, obligation, and pure laziness that I am still here. That is no way to live. I am tired of enduring it. Those who love me will suffer through my death, but I am no longer willing to tolerate my own constant suffering to appease those around me. People can congratulate existence as being enough, but it is abundantly clear in the way people act that that is indeed not enough. I must work, talk, extend myself, and endure constant barrages of pain for people to be satisfied with me. I cannot show my true disastrous self because that is unacceptable to polite society. And honestly, I can't blame them; I know I am a burden. So for fucks sake, let me unburden myself permanently.
I can't handle the voices telling me to die. I can't handle my own voice wishing for it all the time. I hate to admit that I resent the people who care about me for expecting me to continue to haunt this world. That's not kindness. It's terror.
