Hazel Morse isn't my real name, it's taken from Dorothy Parker's short story Big Blonde. I really identify with this character, who has good reasons to be unhappy with her life but is told to "snap out of it" each time she expresses any feelings of sadness. She eventually tries and fails to commit suicide. I'm just beginning to realise the extent of the physical and emotional abuse I went through growing up, but it's left me so socially maladjusted that I am now in the position where I have no friends (that’s zero), the only relatives who will speak to me are my abusive mother and stepfather, no boyfriend or husband, no children, I have spoiled my job prospects (apparently forever) and I cannot function normally in society. I'm too poor to get a cat or dog. I do have a job (that I hate, and an abusive workplace) but that looks to be all over in 6 months. Like Hazel, I've tried and failed to commit suicide twice now. I also drink, like Hazel, but not as a coping mechanism. I drink because it's a legal, slow way of committing suicide. I wish I could get my hands on real drugs and do it faster, but I have no friends, and don't know where I'd purchase them. There is something...I don't know, so apparently foul, wretched, disgusting about me that everyone reacts negatively to the things I say and do, even when I think I'm acting like everyone else. It's like there's a sign written on my forehead that says "Worthless. This is not a human being, this is a piece of shit - less than shit, really. Abuse her. Make her know how useless her life is; how much space she's taking up on the planet." The strange thing is, that trying to commit suicide, or even admitting to feelings of depression, makes people hate and punish me more. Therapists react to me just like everyone else does. The last time I tried to commit suicide, when I woke up in ER the nurse saw me open my eyes, walked over and spat in my face, then walked away without saying a word. I suppose that was supposed to make me reconsider life. I was then put in an unheated room where the walls, floor and sink were smeared with piss, shit, and globs of menstrual blood. It made me feel like I was being punished. When the psychiatrist came to see me, she spoke to me, interrogated me as if I were a criminal. I asked her why someone as horrible as me had to live at all. She snapped back: "You just have to!" Um, OK then. Other psychologists and psychiatrists have said a lot worse, though. One called me "the waster" to my face (because he thought I had wasted my life - haha, even my doctor thinks I'm a loser). That was 5 years ago. I'm just turned 35. I've been depressed since I was 16. I've had suicidal thoughts since I was 17. I've tried about 12 rounds of therapy, with various professionals. Except for two, they've just handed me a pair of emotional and social bootstraps, or told me draw on resources I don't have ("Talk to a friend!" Except I haven't got any?). That's really why I'm here... to see if anyone can answer the question I put to the doctor in the psych ward. I have nothing, no family, no friends, no prospects. I'm ugly, fat and a loser. I just don't understand why I have to be alive. Sorry this is so long - if it belongs somewhere else please let me know.