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Living is a living hell

Living is a living hell

I hate my life. I have been hating it for as long as I can remember. I hate the flaming dumpster fire of the circumstances that I have to live with on a daily basis. I’m left stuck dealing with the mental issues of a hoarder that refuses to change no matter how much I beg and plead, no matter how much their crap and clutter wears on me and tears at my own mentality and anxiety. I am tired of begging and pleading and reasoning and negotiating and have long since just said “fuck it “ and dropped it all for impatience, anger, and agitation. I hate being stressed and depressed and tired and having to deal with aging idiots that act like a stupid toddler that i have to yell at to clean up, like I’m their parent. I hate not being heard, not being listened to, no matter my tactic. I hate that I have tried to reach out for help from others who I thought I could trust, only to be ignored time and time again. I hate that nothing- absolutely fucking NOTHING has changed for decades.

I hate the stressful and shitty state of the world beyond my own home. I hate the pandemic. I hate other people. I hate the declining value of good morals and virtues and people just being toxic and destructive assholes that destroy earth and destroy themselves and just collectively need a swift holy nuke to the population before anything ever changes.

I hate existing. It’s just so fucking hard. And it’s tiresome. And I just don’t fucking have the energy anymore.
anonymous Other August 02, 2020 at 6:22 am 0
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The hoarder family that lived around the block when I was a kid had three kids, one of which had mental issues caused from the living conditions it was said. I remember hearing rumors about the home from my parents & overhearing other adults talking about it, but had never been inside because they probably were too embarrassed to invite friends over to play. The parents were respected members of the community, the wife an educator and the husband a pastor who was also an educator.

Well, one day mother had to go over there for some reason & I begged her to take me too because I just had to see this place for myself. She agreed, but said I could not comment on what I saw and to act "normal." Let's just say the rumors did not do the place justice. It was totally surreal. There was stuff & boxes everywhere, some piles of it were at least six feet high with a small clearance from the ceiling, with small narrow trails to get around the mess. There were stacks and stacks of books, with stacks even on the stairs going upstairs that I could see that just left a tiny narrow foot trail to negotiate. We were offered refreshments, but of course they were refused. The kitchen was completely blocked from view by boxes and junk, but if the rest of the house was any indication of cleanliness, no one in their right mind would eat anything from that place. The couch we were sitting on seemed like some little island oasis that was constantly under threat from being overrun from the looks of things. That was ages ago, but the memory of that place is unforgettable.
anonymous 1 week ago
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