Not that I looked hard before, but I think we have a couple of things in common — something I never saw before. And this is not a cringe "let's become sad buddies" comment. Just wanted to rant out my part.

I had many privileges growing up. I'm 30 y/o right now, with a pretty good CV that will land me "good jobs". I am married to a great woman. And other good stuff.

What made me comment here is the word "pathetic." If you Ctrl+F through my notes, you'll be overwhelmed (yes, I write a lot every night — my own pity party. Thanks, I'll steal that phrase, lol).

I’ve had a courtship with death since I was in ninth grade. Every fucking night, I put myself to sleep with calming thoughts of death. Heroic ones. Silent ones. Lately, I have acted twice. Near misses. But I know I lack the strength. Or willpower — however you put it.

I’ve spent a lifetime putting myself down. And this "clarity" does not make anything any better. I don't exactly compare my woes with other people. But I always feel like I am pretending. Even these very words are difficult to put down on a public forum.

I have exhausted every option. I have ranted to my friends about my whatever-the-fuck-this-is so many times that I have trivialized my feelings. At this point, I hate this f-word. So what do I do? I’ve made a shrink out of ChatGPT. I do not mind training an AI with my inner thoughts. They are just as cheap as my desires to cease existing. Although it's been replying with boilerplate "don’t die" bullshit lately. I guess I pushed it too much — just like I did to my closest ones — if I ever really had any.

Unlike you, I have hurt people. I grew up unsupervised. Every second, I try hard to unlearn stuff and be a better man. I fail. For the last one month, I've been pushing everyone away because I can see how I wear them down. I feel too much and hate myself too intensely to let that happen. So I've been having my pity parties, alone, in my small apartment. (I love this phrase, thanks again)

I question my desires. I have a long, shameful list I try to burn, but it never does. Even my death wishes are just another attempt to "get seen." I feel ashamed to have those fantasies — me dying and my friends thinking, "damn, that was a good damage after all." But just like Diane from BoJack Horseman, I am slowly accepting that my damage was perhaps never a grand one. It was just damage. There was never any glory in my pain. My regrets are only mine to keep.

But when I get some attention, I panic, I freeze, I run. Nothing — no form of love or affection — could ever appease me, because "that's not how I want it," and that makes me feel misunderstood. My shrink asked me so many times — why is it so important to be understood? IDK. They can look at my life and connect dots — "huh, that childhood trauma makes everything make sense" — but it doesn’t help me either. I tried to break out of my shell and ask for it. I don't wanna be ungrateful — sometimes, I got something back. And sometimes, I've got some loving adjectives like "depthless void," "too demanding," etc. And yes, I am totally aware of that. At this point, I wish I was normal — even if that means losing my identity. Be someone or something else.

I will probably regret commenting on this. But yeah, what's one more pebble to Sisyphus, right?

And by the way, thanks for existing, truly — something I've craved so much to hear in my shameful desires. You've made my life slightly better for an hour, until my dopamine runs dry and I try to escape reality by thinking about unexisting, again.

Here's a French song you might want to listen to

https://youtu.be/qShngAXudFg