Quotes About Hopelessness

I refuse to get better. I only hope that whatever pill she gives me makes me feel well enough to plot my own end, to gather the medicines or other methods of destruction in order to make this suicide a success and not just one more wimpy attempt by another hysterical girls who wants help. Because I don't want their fucking help anymore.

that I don't want to feel better in the morning, how that way of life is wearing me out, that what I really want is to not feel this way in the first place.

I know I want out of this mess. I want out. No one will ever love me, I will live and die alone, I will go nowhere fast, I will be nothing at all. Nothing will work out. The promise that on the other side of depression lies a beautiful life, one worth surviving suicide for, will have turned out wrong. It will all be a big dupe.

That's the thing about depression: A human being can survive almost anything, as long as she sees the end in sight. But depression is so insidious, and it compounds daily, that it's impossible to ever see the end. The fog is like a cage without a key.

want out. No one will ever love me, I will live and die alone, I will go nowhere fast, I will be nothing at all. Nothing will work out. The promise that on the other side of depression lies a beautiful life, one worth surviving suicide for, will have turned out wrong. It will all be a big dupe.

Alone again, Beverly relaxed somewhat. It was hard to believe that life could get any worse than this. More than once lately, she had thought about killing herself, erasing the fact that she had ever existed. It would be so easy, so—except that she wouldn't. She didn't respect people who committed suicide.

She said, "I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!"

I can make no dent in anything. I have nothing left to break.

But in a world where England is finished and dead,I do not wish to live.

The fact is, I have been dead so long and it has been simply such a grim shoving of the hours behind me…since the hideous summer of '78, when I went down to the deep sea, its dark waters closed over me and I knew neither hope nor peace.

The day and time itself: late afternoon in early February, was there a moment of the year better suited for despair?

I have no needs. No country, no continent, no hope. I sit in blackness where I once lived. In magic, the only force I recognize. What is it? a face cries, skittering away. All that's left, I reply

It's all like me; and any song for this would just be bullshit. This is a thing, where they stopped trying, they deserted it, and desertion itself is the only possible song.

I have no skills; I have no hope; I don't want any hope. I simply want to sit here, in this calm.

Soundlessly whispering into the void, my lips moving quickly, silently, without ceasing. Calling his name, calling him to me. Even though there's no use. Even though it's futile. Even though it's way past too late.

Me recordaba una procesión fúnebre; estos hombre, mujeres y niños que avanzan con una mirada de muerte y derrota en sus rostros. No podía imaginarme cómo el gueto, ya sobrepoblado, podía darle cabida a una persona más.

Acaso te causan dolor mis fatigas, mis ansias de verte, mis quejas baldías, mi tedio implacable, mi horror por la vida.

'Weary Willie' is very real to me. He is a man who has given up. The boat has gone and left him. The cards are stacked against him. He's content to make out with what he's got. He knows he'll go no further.

It's heartbreaking to see so many people trapped in a web of enforced idleness, deep debt, and gnawing self-doubt.

Nothing prompts creativity like poverty, a feeling of hopelessness, and a bit of panic.

What too few people mention when discussing crime is the degree to which concentrated poverty, hopelessness and despair are the chambermaids of violence and incivility.

There's a real sense of desperation when you grow up in poverty.

Killing yourself is a major commitment, it takes a kind of courage. Most people just lead lives of cowardly desperation. It's kinda half suicide where you just dull yourself with substances.

Do you even know what death is, Tom?" I say. "It's dumb, and it's loud, and it smells bad; you're in Hell and you want to die to get away from it all, but you're already dead and there's nowhere to go. And what's worse is you know you're there because you deserve it, because you're such a fucking waste of skin and gristle. So no, I don't want to die. It's no fun and there's too many people like you there.