This is going to be long, sorry. But you're under no obligation to read it.

I'm a 46-year-old man living in the Midwest of America. I'm divorced with no kids. I came from nothing, raised by a distant father and an abusive mother. I was married for 17 years, and my marriage turned out to be, for the most part, just a big lie. Before that I was wandering aimlessly with no real direction or ambition for anything that would ever lead to a successful and stable career. I was a musician whose crippling social anxiety made living that life untenable.

I went to college and got a BA in history, but that degree is fucking useless if it's not a Masters. I was denied financial aid to pursue that, and could not afford it myself. So I moved from one passionless and boring job to the next.

Then I met and married a woman whose income was so vast she essentially asked me to stay home and take care of the house. I did that and found, for the first time in my life, a sense of peace and stability and real purpose. I considered going for my Masters in history... but the truth is... I got so comfortable with my life that I was hesitant to alter it in any way. For the first time in my life, I wasn't really worried about anything. Probably got complacent.

During that season of my life I found time to write and publish eight books, only one of which sold. Eventually it stopped selling too and I shelved any idea of being a writer and focused mostly on my domestic role in the marriage. I kept our home clean, did the laundry, cooked, took care of the yard, and ran the household as best I could. I wasn't deeply happy, but I was comfortable and loved being married to my wife. I sat in the driveway in the evenings waiting for her to come home. She was my life.

Only problem was that she was not honest with me about who she was, how she felt, what she thought, or what she wanted. In time I learned that all I was to her was an accessory. As the marriage eventually crumbled, I found myself staring down middle-age with no real resume other than househusband and a failed published writer. She abruptly quit her job just as we divorced and announced that we were broke. All we had was our home, which she sold at a loss. So I left the marriage with absolutely nothing. So did she.

I found work as a freelance book designer and a substitute teacher. That's what I do now. I get no joy out of any of it. Kids are horrific these days. I do it only because a man does what he has to do whether he enjoys it or not. But I barely make it. Each month is a scratch and claw struggle to make my rent. As far as I can tell, it's going to be another 40 years of this, since I have no hope of retirement at all.

I live a very dark, unrewarding, lonely, sad, and meager existence. I swim in hopelessness. I have zero confidence in myself or in this monkey shit world we live in or even in life itself. The world is too heavy and hateful for me. It's hard to be a fish in water when the water is toxic. People are cold. Selfish. Digital. They lie. They use. They pass judgment. They're dicks. No one cares about you.

But I could deal with all that.

It's my head that's killing me. There's a voice in my head, a screaming, evil, horrific voice... ceaseless... relentless... It says:

"You're no good. You're disgusting. Everything you do is wrong. Everything you feel is fucked up. You're a loser. You're a waste of space, a fucking mouth to feed. Grow up. You're not a man. You're a fucking stain. Worthless as fuck. Give up. Just fucking end it already. All you are is a tax on people, You bring nothing of value. Slime. Filth. Ugly. Fat. Failure. You're a penniless fuck, two clicks north of homeless. Die already. Kill yourself. Oh wait, you're too much of a fucking coward to do that. You're a piece of shit."

This voice is endless. It's the loudest fucking thing on Earth. Weed doesn't kill it. Therapy fell vastly short of it. Sex only numbs it for like.. a minute, so it's as good as worthless. This voice is the ever-present soul of my reality. My depression is an ocean.

So I think about death a lot. How sweet non-consciousness must be. The relief of not having to be aware, not having to know. How quiet "nothing" must be. I fall asleep dreaming about dying. And the sick thing is that doing so actually makes me smile. I am basking in the illusion that I have regained control.

I won't do it, though. And I have no plan of doing it. It couldn't put my mom or sister through that. It's a shit thing to do.

But I live as a man who doesn't want to be here. I guess mostly because... no matter what my therapists have said... I believe that voice. I really truly do. I believe I am all the things it says about me.

I really do think I'm just a piece of shit.