You will be a lot happier not reading this.
I spend so much time trying to tell myself that suicide isn't the answer. You'd think by now that I'd at least partially believe it, but there isn't a single part of me that does, not even a little. I only live because I am gutless, and the only thing greater than my misery is my cowardice. I don't know how I'm supposed to make anything, finish anything, do anything, or learn anything, when 95% of the time I am fighting a losing battle against my inner demons. I want so much for the end to come, you know, it's all I really want, and it's all I've wanted for a quarter of a century, which is longer than some of you have even been alive. It was supposed to get better at some point, but it didn't; it only got worse. Much, much worse. And the pain and stress of it all has been tearing away at my mind so much for so long, that I question whether or not I can consider myself sane.
I kept trying to pull myself out of that abyss, again, and again, and again, and again. Through self-hatred, I pushed and continue to push myself past my limits and to points of great pain. I feared the thoughts in my head, the thoughts that made me different from other people, the memories and flashbacks of things I can never forget, and I have likely caused myself brain damage from the self-harm I have inflicted over the decades, but even that is not enough to shut up the hell that exists within my mind. I am in hell, I was born into it, I have always lived in it, and I fear that I always will live in it until I die in it, and despite a lifetime of my best efforts, I see only one path that isn't pointless agony, and it's the one wherein I don't exist anymore.
I wanted to be something better than this. I wanted to be happy, and bring joy and love to this ugly, terrifying, brutal world of ours. I wanted the agony to become a distant memory, I wanted to move past everything that I went through and not let it hold me back, I wanted to find a way to kill my greatest demon, my body image issues, so that I could feel like a human being instead of a monster, but... I guess I just didn't have what it took. Maybe I wasn't smart enough. Maybe I wasn't determined enough. Maybe it was always in the cards. I come from trash, and I wanted to be better, but in the end, despite desperately trying to claw my way to something better, even to the point of extreme physical and mental harm, I guess I too am trash. Perhaps it was something immutable, or perhaps that is just wishful thinking.
My partner tells me it wasn't my fault. That there was nothing that I could have done better. That I am amazing for going through what I've gone through, and that if I can get past my pain, he believes I could do anything I put my mind to and achieve brilliant and incredible things. But the thing is, things don't ever get better for me. They just don't. Ever. I only suffer. Maybe I'm bad luck. Maybe I'm cursed. Whether I fight back with everything I've got, or I fall over and accept it, things don't ever get better and I only suffer.
My partner tells me to be easier on myself, don't push myself so stupidly hard, to try and care about myself. But I absolutely despise myself inside and out with every fiber of my being. I am ugly inside and out, and if self-hatred was a fire, this entire world would be turned to cinder by now. I just don't know what to do. I can't live, this hell I am in is not living, but I can't die either. Isn't it all supposed to become some distant memory I can laugh about later? I'm 31 now, when is that supposed to happen? When is my life supposed to start? When am I allowed to say "It's clearly not going to get better, now can you please just be humane and euthanize me?"
Sorry for the rant.