Quotes About Despair

I have nobody in the world. I'll kill myself. That's best. Everyone will say, It's for the best that she killed herself, she's better off dead . . . I hate myself so much I could spend hours and hours just screaming with hatred and with the pain of it, oh the pain of it . . .

Sometimes I felt I would die by wishing it when I went to sleep but I always woke up again and found I was still there. Every morning finding I'm still me, that's hell. Well, get out of hell then! The gate's open and I'm holding it! I can't. I'm hell, myself.

He felt misery, loneliness, a terrible need for love.

Let me sleep at last. I've had misery enough in my life. You said there was nowhere to go to. There is death to go to. I've had misery enough in my life.

Oh my life is so awful, it's just so awful to be me, you don't know what it's like waking every morning and finding the whole horror of being yourself still there.

But now more often the old stale hopeless weariness overcame him: the black sickness which almost no one else , certainly not his nearest dearest friends, could understand at all . The idea of giving up the world, which had given him for a time so much life-energy, appeared now as a sort of fake suicide, a ghastly play-image of his death. This fatal falseness-of-heart was what perhaps Father Damien, on further acquaintance, had now seen in him.

I'm made for misery, misery, misery , I'm made to be destroyed !

But I live, I live , with an absolutely continuous sense of failure. I am always defeated, always.

I'll never be happy, how can you love me, I'm awful, I'm covered with spiders, I'm doomed .

All chances of happiness are gone from me. Just being with myself is hell all the time anyway.

You've obviously never been in love. I have actually. And awfully . And—always—without hope—I've never had my love reciprocated ever.

I just want to serve and help people and be good to everybody, only it always goes wrong somehow—I think about suicide all the time, every bloody day I want to die and stop this torture, but I go crawling on . . . I'm so Christ-awful bloody lonely I could scream with it for hours on end.

I must admit that I am in a state of utter wretchedness and have been for a long time. I didn't know that such extreme unhappiness could continue for so long.

I did love her in a way, but it was under the sign of doom.

Oh God, that conversation last night or this morning or whenever that devil-ridden scrap of nightmare had been. How could two rational beings go on and on simply saying the same awful things to each other week after week, month after month?

I would like to send you to hell. My dear, I live in hell, and have done so since I was a small child. Since I regained my mind I have thought, and dreamt too, of nothing but of killing you. You can do it any time, if you don't mind going to prison.

You talk of freedom — I've never had it! I've been lonely and miserable and in despair, and you want me to consent to all that all over again!

The notion that 'it all somehow must make sense', or 'there is a best decision here', preserves from despair: the difficulty is how to entertain this consoling notion in a way which is not false.

Oh Irina, there's so much life for us. Is there? I feel I have no life. There's nothing in front of me but a black wall.

If I see her she may kill hope.

Please excuse this outpouring which perhaps makes no sense but is the utter darkness of my spirit pouring from me like black blood.

He lay on his back listening to his mother's quiet snoring and thinking how increasingly awful his life was becoming. It was as if he were being squeezed out of the world.

The calmness was the final tone of despair.

It's so sad, all our house seems broken apart, everyone is going.