Is Suicide Really a Meaningless Death?
Today, once again, I found myself thinking that I don’t want to live.
Whenever that thought comes to mind, I wish I could ask my mom:
“Mom, what should I do when I feel like I don’t want to live? What am I supposed to do?”
But I can’t bring myself to say something that would hurt her so directly.
If I said something like that, she’d obviously tell me not to talk that way.
And when I have said things like that before, she didn’t seem to take them seriously.
So I’ve learned not to say it outright.
If she knew what I was really thinking, she might scold me harshly.
I wouldn’t mind that too much, but it does bother me just enough that I stay silent.
Today, as the thought of not wanting to live consumed me, I couldn’t help but wonder:
Is suicide really a meaningless death?
If I could truly disappear from this world, would it still matter if it were meaningless?
Honestly, I wouldn’t care if I died — as long as I were the only person in this world.
But I’ve already lived here for over 30 years.
And there are more than a few people who would be affected by my absence.
Sure, there are those who barely care about me or who would quickly erase and forget me.
I know well enough that such people are not worth thinking about — they’re less than insects in my mind.
But still, what keeps me here, as always, is my mom.
The thought that I could destroy her life is terrifying.
So in that sense, maybe it’s not wrong to call suicide a meaningless or wasted death.
Because to my mom, my death would be an unimaginable shock.
That’s why, in the end, I’ve decided to live.
And since living requires surviving, I keep doing all this — eating, working, functioning.
I say it, and I write it, over and over.
But here’s the funny thing:
Even though I don’t want to live, I’m crushed under this absurd pressure and obligation to do everything necessary to survive.
Isn’t that ridiculous?
I’ve supposedly chosen to live, yet I’m still so miserable — I can’t even understand myself.
I’m sure this kind of writing is a joke or something to be mocked for some people.
But I honestly couldn’t care less about the opinions of such vermin.
What really concerns me is what comes next — this god-awful reality I’m forced to live through despite not wanting to.
How long will it go on like this?
I don’t even know myself.
What the hell am I supposed to do?
Is there even a right way to go about any of this?
As far as I can tell, there’s only one answer: just keep going.
Just like you don’t stop to question why you eat when you’re hungry — you just eat.
I live because I have to. That’s all.
Right now, it’s unbearably hard, and my doubts about life never end.
So I’m writing all this out, maybe in a slightly deranged way.
Do you think I’m crazy?
I’m not.
But still — I just don’t want to live.
In the end, the only reason I’m still here is my mom.
My reason for living is becoming less about me and more about her.
If she had to face this world without me, powerless against it all, that’s when hell would truly begin.
I try to believe, even just a little, in the idea that there’s no afterlife more brutal than this one.
That’s the only thing that keeps me going.
Am I holding on because I see some dazzling light at the end?
No.
I’m just living. That’s it.
I didn’t write this out of force, but I wrote it from the determination that I must live — even if that means doing so by force.
And if you ask me again what I really want to say?
I don’t want to live. You f*ing idiot.**
Seriously.
What the hell am I supposed to do with this?
Seriously…
