No matter how many times the shame hits me, I know I will return to it. I know the thoughts in my head are wrong. I feel it, every time. The recognition of how fucked up it is. But I just don’t care. There’s no version of me that I wouldn’t be ashamed of. So why not push it, right to the edge? Think and feel the worst things I could possibly think and feel. Be the most wretched creature I’m capable of being.
There is conflict inside my mind, but that side of me will always win. I don’t care enough to deny it. To maintain the effort. I don’t believe in or care about anything strongly enough to keep that up. I’ve tried. Or tried to try. Or tried to want to try. But ultimately, there is no try. There is only do, or do not do. And I won’t. I’ve proved that to myself, time and time again. Because I don’t want it enough. I want to be shameful, and wretched, and disgusting. Talk to me in a few hours and you will find someone glorying in their own depravity. The shame is superficial. It doesn’t hit home. It doesn’t last. Nothing changes.
There are few people who have a stronger rationale for killing themselves than me. I have made myself unemployable, undatable, incapable of basic social interaction. And I have dug a deep well of sickness inside my own mind. I have corrupted and twisted myself beyond all recognition.
But I won’t do it. I know I won’t, no matter how much I should. Because on some level, I want to be this. I want to go on being this pathetic, useless, disgusting waste of life. I love my own depravity. I’m deeply attached to my suffering.
It’s all my fault. I could blame my genetics, my environment, the universe itself, some creator. But no matter how they came to be, the faults are within me. The sickness is in my head. The problem is me. And I won’t solve myself. Though no one else can.