Depression 7: The Misery of Hope

[WARNING: This is a self-indulgent series of posts in lieu of getting actual help. It’ll probably just be irritating to anyone else]

I thought finally losing my hope would make things easier. That the anguish of all these daydreams of the way things could go would stop. It turns out the absolute void of anything in my future but too many more years of existence before I finally get to rest is even worse.

Self-delusion may have been the only thing keeping my suicidal impulses to a promise of future release.

I still have my duties and obligations to force me to keep going. To drag me out of bed in the morning.

Life has no reason, no purpose, other than whatever we attribute to it. I don’t think I’m capable of doing so. And I have too little in life to distract me from this void.

I don’t know that I’ve ever been happy. I recall no true moments of joy. And I’m now sure I never will.

The only possibility I do see for any kind of joy, however false, is if I do succumb to the psychotic break that’s seemed imminent for a while. It’s always had this allure of finally allowing me to lose my inhibitions, of being alive. But it’d more likely be far more tortured than that, and I don’t want the risk of causing others pain. Because everyone else is more important than me. Everyone else has something to live for.

I’m not sure what I’d even do without my inhibitions anyway. I see nothing in life that seems that interesting. I don’t drink. I can’t dance. Many things people seem to take pleasure in just look so hollow. Are they all just distractions, and is everyone as broken as me on the inside?

A lifetime of living in here has taught me how to hide most of the things I have inside. Does everybody else do the same, and none of us want to talk about it or acknowledge it? Or is it just me?


I have this desperate need to break out of the soul-eroding routine, but get exhausted by anxiety whenever I do.

I almost feel another me, one I’d sooner be, straining to be free from inside of me. Giving me urges to do something stupid.

Maybe going to the conference was a good thing. Stirring up my anxieties. Maybe it’ll goad me into acting. And inevitably doing the wrong thing.

Though with no definite goal, I’m more likely to carry on along the same familiar groove.


All I have left is memories of a life unlived. And I’m too old and broken to start living it now. All I have to hold on to is the promise of oblivion thereafter.

I so wanted to be rid to the final niggling sliver of hope, with all its lies that only served to make the anguish worse when they never happened.

Now I’m left with nothing. Just a need to keep writing to hold the darkness at bay.

But I think I’m out of words.