February 1, 2026. 20:03.
I hate myself. It feels like with every day I keep falling into a dark abyss and can't find anything to hold on to. I need to speak out. Maybe it will make me feel better, or maybe it will change nothing. I don't know. Most likely, these notes I'm writing in my phone, no one except me will ever see. I'm even afraid that someone might see them. I don't want to appear weak. I've always loved inventing extra things and imagining myself in the role of a victim. Because of this, even now I don't fully believe myself — I don't believe my own feelings and sensations. Maybe in reality everything isn't so bad. Maybe I'm just a whiner who wants to be pitied. I don't know. I've known about my mental weakness before. I never endured even the slightest pressure, but I didn't want to accept it. I wanted to prove to myself that I was actually strong. I don't want to keep writing right now. I don't want to do anything. I hate myself. I wish I could just disappear.
20:15. I decided to continue.
In recent months I've started noticing that I can't concentrate on one thing for long. The first paragraphs up to this moment I wrote by hand, but then it just became unbearable to write. I don't know why or because of what this is happening. Right now I'm simply recording my voice and will send it to a neural network so it can turn it into text and make it readable, because it's hard for me even to formulate basic sentences.
Last year I got hooked on writing web novels in Russian. In recent months I started translating them into English with the help of neural networks to post them on Webnovel. I had so many ideas, so many different concepts. I even tried writing and publishing them, but I abandoned many after writing just a couple of chapters, and then deleted them.
And right now the thought came to me. I don't want anyone from my close circle to see these records. But it's unlikely that any of my acquaintances hang out on Webnovel. And I don't believe that anyone would be interested in reading my thoughts at all. But if readers suddenly appear, then at least I could earn a little something from it. For an eighteen-year-old poor student who studies abroad, who doesn't have a penny in his pocket, who essentially dragged his family into huge debts for his own interests and still, instead of trying to earn money, asks them to send him money — that would be a nice bonus.
Don't think I'm asking for money. I hate asking anyone for money. I'm talking about a contract. If by some miracle I manage to keep writing and reach 12,000 words, I'll be able to apply for a contract. I think at least some small change could be withdrawn from it. It was this idea that just came to my mind — to monetize my depression?
I don't know what depression is. Before, I didn't think it was something real, because thanks to parents who always supported me and were there for me, I didn't feel such pressure as I do now. It seems that this is exactly what I've run into. Before, looking at people on social media who talked about their depression, I thought they were pretending, making it all up and just trying to attract attention. I considered them weak. Now I understand that I myself am very weak. But even now I can't 100% claim that this is depression.
I'm 18 years old. At the end of May I graduated from school, at the beginning of September I moved to another country — thousands of kilometers from home. I left everything: a carefree life, friends, loved ones. Although it wasn't necessary. But since childhood I wanted to travel, see the world, get out of my country as soon as possible. That was what drove me. And now I more and more often think: did I choose the right place for myself?
I won't name my homeland, I won't say who I am or which country I moved to. I will simply share my thoughts.
It seems I have memory problems — I forget my own words said a couple of seconds ago. I don't know the language of the country I moved to. I know English, but not as well as I would like. Right now I'm studying my fourth language, but the first two don't help here at all.
I have friends I communicate with in English, but my level isn't enough to properly express my thoughts. And I don't think these people are close enough to me. I don't want to tell my thoughts to anyone else. Since childhood I was a recluse. When friends wanted to play outside, I liked staying home alone so no one would bother me or force me to talk. Although things weren't always so good.
In recent years I made a lot of friends, and they made me believe that I too could be a normal, sociable person. But after moving to another country I seem to have shut myself in even more.
I live in a dormitory, I have a roommate. At first we communicated well, but at some point I just stopped talking to him. Now we don't even greet each other. I've been here for half a year already, and for the last two months I just go to classes, return to the dorm and don't leave my room. I lie on the couch or on the bed and stare at the ceiling. I do nothing. I often skip classes — you could say I've almost abandoned my studies. I only go for attendance, to extend my visa.
I don't want to go back home and I don't want to drop out, because my already not rich family spent huge money on my move. I don't want to disappoint them. I have wonderful parents, I know they will support me, but I still don't want to return. Although deep down I understand that I want to go home. It's as if there's some other part of me that doesn't let the real me come out and doesn't allow me to give up.
The last few weeks I've been thinking: let someone give me a reason to give up, to admit defeat. I'm waiting for it not to be me who makes this decision, but for circumstances to force me. There's chaos in my head. I have things to tell, but the words feel like they have to be squeezed out. Thoughts rush in a stream, but I can't structure them.
Tomorrow exams. I had weeks to prepare, but I did nothing. I do care — I want to prepare, I just don't do it. I tried to force myself. Before it worked, but now it feels like it causes mental pain, some kind of inner suffering. I can't do anything. It feels like I'm losing control over myself.
Right now I'm just recording my thoughts and sending them to ChatGPT so it can turn them into text. It copes excellently, but it's even funny to me that it's trying to help and support me. Why? I don't want anyone to help me.
On the other hand, right now I even like to suffer. It seems I've liked suffering since childhood. I always thought I was aware of it and kept it under control. That's what I thought until recently. I always told myself that difficult periods pass eventually. But a couple of days ago I thought: what if this never passes? What if this never ends?
To get better, you need to act, to do something. But I don't want to do anything. And if I'm not even trying to fix the situation and seem to be choosing to stay in this swamp myself — then is there any point in living further? It was exactly then, for the first time in my life, that I thought about suicide. To end everything — and that's it. I would simply cease to exist, and I wouldn't care anymore what people think or what happens to those who remain alive. There would be no more me as a consciousness.
But it seems to me that I haven't fallen deep enough yet to give in to these thoughts. I quickly pushed them away.