Here I wait to die, it may be a while, may I suggest a beverage?
Nothing makes me feel more guilty than knowing the only reason I’m alive despite my depression is my own fear of tactile pain. I’m not physically numb, I’m emotionally numb. Even my depression is messed up and doesn’t fit the standard.
I'm too boring to date.
My social life has deteriorated to where my best friend is a guy on Discord that I've never actually met in person, lives a full continent away, and I doubt has any desire to actually meet me. Can't talk to him about this without causing his depression to grow. I'm doing all I can to help him through his troubles, and the guilt here is that I think I'm helping him not to make myself a good person, but to make myself feel like one for brief fleeting moments before the inevitable return to worthlessness.
I'm a computer geek, a Star Trek Nerd who fears talking about it even to other fans because I can't stand any of the new versions...or the oldest one. I'm a picky little p****.
At the office, I'm the night guy who uses fake enthusiasm, and a goofy attitude to hide how shriveled and dead I am inside. When asked how I am, I'm "Fantastic!". I'm a master of going off into excessive overthought and detail when someone asks me how my weekend was, because I know it will stop them from asking questions that I dare not answer.
ie. "How was your weekend?" - "It was awesome, I stayed home and got a lot done, then went out for a drive, visited (nearby city), and spent some time finally organizing the trunk of my car because you know how when you're driving and everything shifts around, well I went out and got one of those trunk organizers, fairly cheap at the dollar stor-...oh, you should probably answer that" (When I don't want them to ask any details: I stayed home and watched youtube all day, what I got done was laundry, my drive was to a grocery store, the trunk organizer is true but I did that months ago, and I fail to mention how I spent half the weekend trying and failing to distract myself from wanting to die)
I am one of god's own prototypes. Too worthless to live, to lazy and cowardly to die. Hiding my mediocrity behind a goofy finish.
But I'm not supposed to feel bad. People have it worse than I, I have a car, I have most of my health, I live in a popular major city in safe country, and I have no debt. I should be s******* happiness! How DARE I feel bad. I am broken, damaged, and wrong.
My only virtues are that If I claim to care about you, I really do, and that I make decent money...if you can really call that a virtue. But if I can't say that these alone would make someone else a wonderful friend/lover/person/employee...then what hope have I?
And yet the chances of things getting better by more than a small anomalous amount is beginning to feel like worse odds than being felated by a unicorn while winning the lottery.