I have just the anecdote for your feelings, man. Be warned: it's about to get all emo up in this bitch. It should also be noted I'm doing better now. It's been quite a ride getting to where I am today, and I still have much work to do, but I'm pretty pumped to be out of the mindset I was in around this time:
My own self-loathing has been something I've battled since childhood. I know, I know, how can a kid hate himself? That's a long story for another time, just take my word for it. I've always had an astounding lack of confidence in myself, and I've always found myself hating the man in the mirror. As a teenager I contemplated suicide frequently (but then again, what teenager honestly hasn't? We're all dumb at that age) and went for it once before bitching out. About a year ago I hit my "rock bottom" as it were. My homelife was awful, I was going to a school I hated, all my friends had moved off to school, and I felt helpless and alone. No outlet for my aggression, no one to go to about my problems (which, contrary to what some of you may assume, were pretty serious, even for a 19 year old), and my hatred for myself was only growing by the day.
The depression became so bad that it literally became a chore to get through each day. I looked to drugs for comfort and, of course, they only made things worse. I never got addicted to anything, fortunately, and I eventually lost interest in even getting high. I tried retail therapy, whatever I could to ward off the feelings, but they never left. One thing that did stave off these feelings, though, was cutting. That's right, for a short period, I was a "cutter". I went out of my way to cut where my parents couldn't see, and it gave me a sense of supreme relief. Cutting is incredibly unhealthy, and it leaves scars, but damn if it wasn't satisfying. I suppose it was the sense that I was inflicting pain on the one I hated most, myself, and the adrenaline rush from making each incision offered a soothing "high" that could more or less be defined as "silence". After I was done cutting, and the blood was oozing out, there was just my own heartbeat. None of my problems seemed relevant. It's difficult to explain, as a year before I started cutting, I would've been repulsed by the idea.
Eventually my mom would find out about the cutting, and knew I was really depressed to begin with. She urged me to seek therapy, but I refused again and again, until I drafted up a suicide note one night and decided to throw myself in front of the subway train I took to school each day. I had the note printed, the only thing in my backpack that day, but I backed out at the last minute. As I waited for the train to pull in I had a bit of an epiphany. Or maybe I knew I was never going to go through with it at all. Whatever the case, I decided to get help that day. Society and my homelife had raised me to believe that talking to people was the "pussy" or cowardly thing to do. Real men keep their emotions bottled up forever, right? It turns out it takes a lot more balls to admit you need help and pull yourself out of the hole you're in rather than wallowing in it. I'm not saying that's what you've done, I don't know you after all, but I'm speaking solely for myself here. I was caught off-guard by how informal and free-form the therapy sessions were. It was just me and the therapist talking. He empathized with the problems I was facing at home, and was an addiction specialist, something that helped me understand the nature of the disease and how it effects the human mind. I wasn't an addict, I have an addictive personality, but most of my home problems were caused by a parent who battled opiate addiction. I prefer not to go into detail about it. Talking to someone is a lot easier when they're bound by legal contract to never speak a word of what you say to them, and when they're mature enough not to think differently of you because of what's going on around you.
Needless to say, seeking help had a huge impact on my state of mind thereafter. I'd be a fool to say that I'm 100% better now, I still have demons to fight, but I'm proud of the progress I've made thus far. The thing I can't stress enough is that you're not the only one feeling this way. Please don't take that as "Everyone has problems, grow up", because that's not what I'm saying at all. I'm saying that everyone is at least a little fucked in the head, and there is absolutely no shame in admitting it and seeking help for it. I realize from first-hand experience that therapy is expensive, but I highly recommend turning to a confidant you can trust and talking it through. If you feel there's no one out there you can reach out to, you can absolutely feel free to send me a PM if you feel comfortable enough doing so. If I could be of any help I'd be honored to do so. Not trying to make myself out to be Dr. Phil or anything, I just feel I have a sense of empathy when it comes to this thing that not everyone does.
Hope this helped man, stay strong.
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