I'm worthless



New member
Jan 8, 2019
Hi. I've been depressed for a long time, perhaps close to thirty years now, off and on. I had a good run for a few years in my mid-20s in grad school, but most of my memories going back to middle school are of introversion, social awkwardness and zero self-esteem, and things have caught up with me in a hurry and I can't normalize it anymore. My mum died, I got fired from my job, I just started using weed a few weeks ago for depression as it's finally gotten to be borderline debilitating, but I've been too chicken to tell my spouse. I have no skills, no job prospects, no friends. I can physically feel the alienation occurring in real time anytime I converse with people. Oddly enough, I have a home that is paid for, no debt, lovely children and a wife who I adore and who claims to adore me. But I am not responsible for any of the good things in my life, and I despise myself and my worthlessness. All I have to offer is cynicism.

Beside using weed, I also started searching for depression forums and strategies, specifically with the notion of writing my way out of depression. (Anything to avoid leaving the house and going to a real doctor.) After finding a couple of things, I finally made myself sit down and write. I feel that it's a necessary step, now, to share my writing. Being an introvert, I feel that it is key to my sanity and sociability in this situation that I bounce my feelings off an audience, particularly one that might relate and be receptive. For my loved ones, I feel compelled to believe those of you who say that, despite how it feels, there is a way out and a better life even with depression.

Also, please do not wish me a merry christmas, happy holidays or happy new year. These are triggers for me and I've just gotten out of a minefield.


New member
Jan 8, 2019
So here is what I've written

I’m worthless.

No you’re not.

But I am. I contribute nothing and only take.

That’s not true. And even if it’s true, it’s not your fault.

I have nothing to offer. I offer nothing, but I also have nothing to offer in the first place. There’s no end to this. That’s my fault.

That’s not true. We love you, and you can do things, we support you.

I can’t do things. I’m worthless. I’m unlikeable. I’m unproductive and hypercritical. I don’t add, I only subtract. My sense of worthlessness is overwhelming, I see no way out of it. The more worthless I feel, the less I am capable of doing. The less I do, the more worthless I feel.

Babe, we love you, you’re the best dad.

No I’m not. You’ll be sick of me soon enough. I’m a loser, I can’t be happy. It’s already making its way into my relationship with the girls.

They love you.

They’ll be better off without me.

Babe, that’s not true. You’re their dad and they love you.

They’ll figure me out soon enough. The sooner I stop affecting them, the better off they’ll be in the long run. I’m worthless, but they don’t know that yet. I love them, but they don’t realize yet that I don’t know how to behave and how to act on my love.

That’s not true.

Everything I do is an expression of repression and self-loathing. I feel love, but it’s trapped, it gets distorted, it never comes out right.

Babe, they love you. Your daughter was just telling about how she cries tears of joy when she feels the love she shares with you. She said she feels her love growing. She’s five and she said she cries tears of joy over you.

Yes. And then I still find some way to express anger or disappointment toward her. I’m only confusing her, she’s going to end up with the same twisted understanding of love that I’ve developed.


It’s true. My fears are coming true, I’m turning into my dad, afraid of everything and incapable of showing love. He hated himself and taught me to hate myself. Why would I perpetuate that family tradition?

We love you. We need you.

You need me? You need me to pick up the girls from school so that you can work more hours because I’m a schmuck who got fired. I’m worthless. You work more and see the girls less because of me. We have less because of me. We’re all better off without me.

You can’t leave.

I know.

Do you want to leave?

I can’t stay.

Do you want to leave?

I can’t take it. I can’t take being worthless.

You’re not worthless.

I am. You’re just saying that because you’re biased. You married me, you’re honorable and committed. You’re the best mother, very loving and gentle and involved, the kind of mother who wants a father for her kids. You have to tell me that I’m priceless, contrary to all the evidence.

Are you not happy?

I am.

I don’t get it.

I’m happy. I love you. I love the girls. I feel such joy around you all.


I’m incapable of contributing to your happiness or to their happiness. I’m incapable of bringing happiness into the world. I’m a drain on the world around me. The quantity of my misery and worthlessness is the difference between how happy you make me and how much happiness I subtract from the world.

You make us happy. The girls are happy, they love their dad. You make them laugh all time. They cry tears of joy and love.

I can’t take that pressure. The sooner I’m out of the picture, the better that picture will look, the more fondly they’ll look at it. That snapshot should be taken before they figure me out. Their dad is a fucking loser.


I can’t make friends. If I do, I can’t keep them. I have no friends. I have no positivity. I have no job. I’m unemployable. I’m unbearable, I’m exhausting, I’m a burden. I have no ambition, I don’t know what I even want out of life. I’m so incapable of expressing a desire that I can’t even conjure one up within myself to subsequently suppress. All of my desires are buried under decades of fear and sarcasm.


I’m incapable of working for myself. I have no skills. Nobody wants to deal with me. I’ll never make a steady income again. I can’t market myself because I hate myself. I’ll never contribute to this family.

You will. You do. It just takes time. We support you.

The only reason this family has put up with me is because we have trust fund kids. Without somebody else's ambition and success, I’d be homeless. And deservedly so. When the girls grow up, you’ll finally discover my uselessness, my worthlessness. You’ll find somebody who's worth your time, you’ll find the happiness you deserve. Me, I’m just an albatross. Maybe not that heavy, but you’ll start to notice the drag soon enough.

Babe, it just takes time.

Yes, it takes time. That’s part of the problem. I won’t get anywhere. Time will pass and I’ll still be here, a useless fuck that you’ll be embarrassed to take anywhere. The more time I’m given, the more worthless I become. All I see are obstacles. I just sit at home and tell myself I’m doing research, that I’m getting traction. But I know I’m a waste of time and space. I won’t get anywhere, and I would never inflict myself on anyone else. All I can do is sit on my ass and pretend that I’m starting my own business. But I can’t start anything. Obstacles everywhere.

Like what?

Paperwork, red tape. Lots of rules, I’m going to break some rules because I’m an ignorant and hasty idiot, and I’ll get myself in trouble. People are going to know my name, our name, you’ll be guilty by association. I’m a fuckup, why would I want to professionalize that? And they’ll know you’re related to that loser. I’ll say something stupid, I’ll be unprofessional, because I have no filter, I always say the wrong thing, I always say something stupid because I don’t understand people and what they do and don’t like. I’m an incompetent idiot. I don’t believe in myself, I’ll never get past my self-disbelief and self-loathing. I’m miserable and unlikable.

Babe, you’re very charming. Why are you so hard on yourself?

I’m charming? If I’m charming, where are all my friends? Why do I have nobody to be there for? Why do I have nobody to be there for me? Why are all my friends actually your friends? Why did I get myself fired? I’m alone. I’m a loner, a loser. I could stop breathing now and it wouldn’t make a difference to anybody.

Babe, don’t talk like that, it’s not true.

It is true. The only people who would notice are you and the girls. And you’ll get over it. The sooner I get it over, the sooner you’ll get over it.


I mean, I can’t leave. What’s the point? I’ll just be miserable somewhere else instead of here.

You’re miserable?

No, I’m happy. But my happiness makes me miserable.

You’re overthinking this.

Life is pointless. I know that. So why can’t I be happy being happy knowing that there’s no point?

You’re overthinking this.

No, I don’t think I am. The happier I am with you all, the more miserable I am because of my inability to add any happiness myself. I can’t live like this.

We need you. We love you. You make us happy.

You don’t. Trust me, you don’t need me and you could be much happier. Imagine how happy you’d be with someone who didn’t corner you into these conversations. All I do is bring you down, like you don’t have anything better, more important and more fun to do that humor my sulking bullshit. But don’t worry, I can’t leave. And I’m too big of a pussy to kill myself. And I can’t leave. It wouldn’t be fair to you and the girls. It wouldn’t be fair for me to go off and be less miserable on my own than I am stealing your happiness. I’m a loser, but I’m not selfish. I love you, I love the girls, I want what’s best for them.

You’re the best. They tell you that all the time.

They’re kids, they don’t know what they’re talking about. I just can’t figure out if they’re better off with or without me. If it wasn’t for the trauma, definitely without me, I think. I just don’t know if we’ve already passed the point of no return. I shouldn’t have had kids, I’m unfit to care for and love a living thing. All I’m doing is reproducing depression. You guys don’t need this. The world doesn’t need this. We should all just cut our losses.

But you just said you love us, that you’re not selfish.

I don’t know, I mean, everybody is selfish. Why are you too scared to admit that I’m a drag, that I’m holding you back, that I’m a happiness vacuum? That I’m incapable of properly relating to the outside world? That I’m damaging your children?

I’m not scared. I just don’t think those are true statements.

Would it be fair to you if I went off in search of diminished misery? Wouldn’t you be happier in the long run? It’ll be an adjustment, but worth it. It’ll be worthwhile for you to shed my worthlessness.

You’re kinda scaring me.

You should try feeling worthless. The scared feeling goes away. Most feelings go away, actually.

That doesn’t sound fun. That doesn’t sound real. But you’re scaring me.

I think what I’ll do is just . . . I don’t want to traumatize the girls. I’ll just wait until they’re at school. I’ll call the cops, tell them to come find me. No visuals for you or the girls that way. Just a disappearing act.

Don’t say that. You can’t say that.

I’m burying too many of my thoughts. I can’t say anything. I don’t have the courage to say anything. Everything I say comes out wrong. I shouldn’t say anything, burden you by saying what I’m thinking. Every time I talk, it fucks everything up. I’m an idiot. I need to bury my thoughts, they do no good. Everybody who’s ever known me would be better off having not known me.

You are charming. You have a charm. We love you.

I had a dream last night that we were in the universe of the tv show Roseanne. We were ourselves, but we were playing our lives out on the show. I remember fixing something. I was a working class Roseanne guy, fixing something. And then we were in a car with other people, but they were faceless. You were driving, I was in the back seat, we were talking about a tv show. I said something about it, you said something back to me that was kind of contrary, and then I said something back to you about how I just wanted to talk about the show for a couple minutes now in the car because that’s what we used to do in the evenings together before the divorce. I dreamed that we had gotten a divorce, I realized, as my dream-self said that. We would never again lie next to each other in bed and overanalyze dumb tv shows together. I woke up with the worst feeling in the world. It knocked me out of my depressed state for a few days, replaced by an anxiety about losing you, by my love for you, my desire to be with you and love you and go where you go and do what you do, to be yours and to be together, it completely replaced my sense of worthlessness and self-absorption. In the dream, the fix-it guy that I was playing on Roseanne was actually helping you move into your new place. There was no other man in your life. You just wanted out, so you got out. It was the worst feeling I have ever felt. It still is. I feel it right now. I was helping you leave me. I don’t blame you, but it was the worse feeling in the world.

I’ll never leave you.

But you’ve thought about it.

Only that one time.

That was a long time ago. Everything’s changed since then. I almost blew it, but we grew back together.

The things that are the same are the good things. And besides, it was your dream, not mine. The bad things are behind, and we’ve made the good even better. We have each other, we have the girls. Don’t overthink this.

I haven't made anything. I’m worthless. I’m a drain. I have nothing to offer. What are you going to do with me? You can’t possibly live the rest of your life hearing me complain about how depressed I am.

I’m going to love you like I always have.

I can’t breathe. I can’t see. I hate. I don’t trust myself, I’m an idiot, I deserved what the people I hate did to me. I wish I could cause something in their lives to go wrong. I hate them. I hate myself because they taught me to hate myself. I don’t trust anyone. I just hate them and myself. I hate my dad. I hate my old bosses. I hate my subservient, self-deprecating ways. There’s no way out for me, forever a drain, forever baggage. I’ll only feel fulfilled when somebody treats me as the worthless piece of shit that I am.


Well-known member
Dec 17, 2018
California, US
What you wrote is so real and I've felt that in my life so I understand that no matter what lovely things someone tells you, it can't make the feelings go away. Writing like you have is an effective way to get it out of your head because bottling that stuff up is poison.

(Anything to avoid leaving the house and going to a real doctor.)
So I'll ask you, what do you actually feel is harder, asking for help from a professional or trying to cope with symptoms of depression indefinitely? It took me 10 years to ask for help and another 5 to get it. I'm that guy who says he wishes he didn't wait 15 years before asking for help with my severe depressive disorder. But I'm also that guy who says he's glad he didn't wait 20 or more. If it suits you to, let's talk about that.

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