Not Important

I know my last post was only a few days ago, and here I am again. Sorry for taking your time — I probably sound like a whiny ***. If you want to skip this, go ahead; it’s not important.

These past few days this app has been my refuge. I come here to read other people’s stories and the small kind things strangers say. Thank you to everyone who left love and wise words on my last thread — I’m really grateful. Still, here I am, writing the same thoughts that most people would call nothing.

I feel broken. My mind, my heart, my soul — none of them are working right. Nothing dramatic happened: I have food, a roof, a family who cares, a job, and I’m physically okay. But every single day I wish I were dead.

Ten years ago I dropped out of college because I thought I couldn’t handle the pressure. Since then I’ve never felt the same. Guilt has been eating me for a decade. Recently a job was given to me — I wasn’t looking; for years I hid because I didn’t know what to do. I thought the job would fix something. Instead I felt worse. I know it makes me sound ungrateful. I hate myself for that too.

Every time I walk past the railway on my way to work or home I imagine throwing myself in front of the train. I cry so often. It’s not the “my life is hard” cry — it’s the “what is wrong with me?” cry. Why can’t I push myself through this? Why can’t I be grateful? Every morning, opening my eyes feels like an instant disappointment because I’m still alive.

I know it’s easier to dismiss me — “you don’t have a real problem.” Maybe you’re right. I did this to myself, I made this mess. Sometimes when I try to cheer myself up by thinking, “others have it worse,” it backfires: my chest hurts, my knees go weak, and the sadness gets worse. I want to punch myself. I know none of this makes sense. I’m sorry.

Most people I see on the street or the train probably have harder burdens than mine. I admire them. I admire all of you. I’m genuinely happy for every small and big step you take. I mean it.