Hate life. Hate being here on this fucking planet. Have for as long as I can remember which I guess is why I started drinking all the time, doing heaps of drugs, and cutting myself. Did it help? No, not really. But it did pass the time. Made me feel like I could see myself just waiting to die rather than feeling like I was always a month or two away from killing myself.

But now I’ve stopped all that shit. Haven’t done drugs for about 6 months. Haven’t self-harmed for 4. Haven’t had any alcohol for 3. Did it cause it’s all you fucking hear as an addict, shit like “you gotta stop, you’ll feel so much better!”, and “you’ll never get where you need to be while you’re doing that shit!”. And maybe it’s even true in some cases.

Think the thing people forget is, I did that shit because I hate being alive. Suicide didn’t just feel like it was in the cards, it felt like it was the whole fucking deck. Like my next draw was it, I could delay it, but it was fucking inevitable. 

The therapists couldn’t help. Not DBT or CBT or EMDR or fucking any of them. It was all just fucking words at the end of the day. I’d take the suggestions, journaling, meditation, breathing exercises, the fucking mindfulness and practice ‘em, I mean really try, for at least a month, but still, sweet fuck all in the results column. 

Pills were the same. Antidepressants, antipsychotics, mood stabilisers, didn’t fucking matter. When through dozens and dozens of the fucking things. None of them did anything, not a fucking thing. Not even one pesky fucking side effects. Zilch.  

So then I started self-medicating. Maybe it’s just cause I was so fucking numb all the time I just couldn’t tell how much I was suffering but I felt better. At least in ways. Didn’t have relationships to ruin, and for sure didn’t start new ones, but I could at least tolerate talking to people. Could tolerate being at work, can’t do that normally. Shame it’s hard to go unnoticed doing that shit at work though so I still couldn’t *hold* a job. Made a couple things better at least.

But then I stopped. Cause people I used to know told me I should. Only they fucked off outta my life and I relapsed. Then I stopped again cause those fucking people have instilled their fucking ideas in my head now and I can’t escape the fucking guilt and shame anymore and addiction is basically ruined for me. Thanks, fuckers.

But now I’m worse than ever. The medication still doesn’t do a fucking thing. Therapy is still just fucking useless words. Everything still fucking sucks and I still think about killing myself 24/7. Still exercise everyday, eat well, try to do shit, but it doesn’t fucking help one iota. And now one of my only options, becoming an addict to numb it all away, is gone cause of the fucking guilt. 

And the fucking therapists and shit just pat you on the back and tell you how fucking “proud” you should be for kicking the addictions. Like it fucking matters. Like them being proud translates to you in any fucking way. Like you don’t constantly wish you could throw the guilt away and go right back to it. Like it’s made any fucking difference in your life whatso-fucking-ever. They just act like you made it through hell when in reality, you’re caught in the worst fucking hell yet. And then they dust off their fucking hands and act like the hard works all done, at least the bulk of it. But it fucking isn’t. Feels like I’ve lost ground, like I’m a few steps *before* square one now. 

I just fucking hate this shit. I don’t understand what my brain is fucking waiting for by not letting my just up and kill myself. I don’t know why the fuck I can’t do it when it’s all I wanna do, when I don’t have any fucking hope and I don’t fucking care if it’ll “get better one day”.