Pain, agony, suffering, and loneliness.
These are the things that fill my life. A never ending cycle of monotonous events day in and day out. I wake up, go to work, then go to bed. This repeats for five days at a time before the weekend arrives. Said weekend isn’t much different. Wake up, attempt to socialize with other ponies, fail at that, mope about, do nothing, and back to bed.
Many times I have wondered what the point of getting out of bed was, since all that greeted me each day was more of the same. I go to work every single day, acting cheerful and smiling all the while, performing a show for the customers and my co-workers. I appear happy when I’m not, and it eats away at me. My head swirls inside contradictions and paradoxes whilst I cry when I smile.
By now, everypony who is reading this is probably yelling at me.
“Get over it, work is boring.”
“Go do something instead of moping and sitting around doing nothing.”
“Change won’t happen on it’s own.”
“Stop being such a crybaby, suck it up.”
To them, I say, “You try being depressed. Then you’d know it isn’t that simple.”
Clinical depression. I will not lie, when I learned that this was a diagnosable ailment, I about laughed my flank off. That was before though, now I can see how and why. It cripples and paralyzes all in its grasp.
I no longer find joy in things I once did, so I stopped doing them. I can barely sleep, as my mind is always active, never ceasing its blasted functions. I never feel happy, only sad and lonely. Even the company of my friends and family do nothing to help me. All I can do is put on a fake smile and say everything is alright, even if it’s not.
Where I once saw good and hope, I only see countless imperfections, numerous mistakes I have made, and how it could all go bad or wrong.
I fear my family and friends suspect that something is amiss. I have become a fair bit more secluded than my usual self, and I think my parents have heard me crying hysterically more than once late at night. The last thing I want is for them to drag me to a doctor and force-feed me happy pills. Living a life through false happiness sounds like a hell in of itself, in addition to having ponies constantly fawning over me. To make sure I was happy, that I felt like I was worth something, that I mattered, and to make sure I was taking my medication.
Fuck that shit.
I already know I’m a worthless mare who wouldn’t be missed. They could easily find somepony else to replace my spot in the store. I don’t matter. All my existence is, is a name, a number, a face, and a birth certificate.
Think about it, the planet we live on is huge. On top of that, our planet spins in a great expanse so vast we cannot comprehend it. Ponies and other creatures are born and die every single damn day. Who would notice or care if another one died today? Honestly in the grand scheme of things, we are all irevelant insignificant life-forms who live and die for no purpose that we can make out, other than for our own pleasure or survival.
What’s the point of this?
This question has kept me awake pondering for more nights than I care to count. If all we do is live for our own pleasure, why do we exist? At the same time, if we no longer find happiness or pleasure in anything, what’s the point of living?
I feel cold, empty inside. I once cared about others, about myself, about living. Now, I can’t even justify getting out of bed to myself anymore. Everything in life is so trivial and meaningless if we’re going to die later down the road anyway.
At first, I was frightened by this lack of feeling. I grew desperate, vainly trying to enjoy things I once did, trying to seduce stallions to feel the warmth of another, and finally I drove myself over the edge. I wanted to feel something, anything. I saw a knife upon the kitchen counter, and you can guess where that led.
I felt pain, but it was something to remind me that I was still here. Eventually, it stopped hurting so much and actually began to feel good. I began enjoying the sensation of agony in my flesh as it turned into pure joy. Pain became my vice, my last remaining source of pleasure left to me in this world. How wet I would get and how hard I came as I masturbated, feeling the searing pleasure of metal slicing through my fur and skin with the sight of my own blood driving me wild.
The first few cuts were easy enough to dismiss to those around me. After my need became greater, so did my cuts. They grew deeper and longer, and were becoming harder to hide. The explanation of falling into a briar bush would no longer work, and my hoodie could only cover so much. I started lying.
Short of telling those around me I was getting mugged or beaten on a regular basis, I just said I was having several unfortunate accidents with sharp objects. Falling on scissors, dropping knives while carrying them, snipping myself with shears at work, and the like.
…
Yeah, I don’t blame them for not believing me. My explanations were more shoddy than a house of cards. Needless to say, drastic measures were taken. All sharp objects around the house, and my place of work, were kept away and out of my reach. Then the forced doctor visits started. One to heal my body, and a shrink to listen to my hormone and depression driven sob stories.
To this day I still feel depressed. I never take any pills they give me, and I am now a master of finding them in my food. They say I’m mentally unstable, a bomb waiting to go off. Maybe they’re right, maybe not.
So now I sit, sitting on my bed whilst writing this. I gaze at the one knife I managed to sneak out and keep hidden this whole time. It gleans malevolently with a few thin trails of crimson. This and my wet sheets are signs of my pleasure that I befit upon myself a few minutes ago.
I grab the knife and stare into the polished and reflective metal. I see my mirror image staring back blankly, through the lines of red. Thoughts enter my mind, sick, evil, unhealthy thoughts. I’m depressed, my life has no meaning, why should I live? It would be so easy to take my own life. One slash across the neck and it would be over in a couple of minutes.
I sit, I stare, I think. I see no reason not to do it, but I hesitate regardless. I ask myself; Is this the answer? Will this solve my problems? Is this the answer I’ve been seeking?
To be completely honest, I have no idea...