Life is merely terrible; I feel it as few others do. Often — and in my inmost self perhaps all the time — I doubt whether I am a human being.

Life is, of course, terrible.

Life is an awful, ugly place to not have a best friend.

Mine has been a life of much shame. I can't even guess myself what it must be to live the life of a human being.

You’re awful.” “I’m honest. It’s the world that’s awful.

Besides, my life is a catastrophe. It's a catastrophe to be without a voice.

I know I am awful. But how much more awful I should be without the Faith.

Oh, isn't life a terrible thing, thank God?

It can't be that life is so senseless and horrible. But if it really has been so horrible and senseless, why must I die and die in agony? There is something wrong!

Slept, awoke, slept, awoke, miserable life.

The average, healthy, well-adjusted adult gets up at seven-thirty in the morning feeling just plain terrible.

Life is a terrible thing, thank God.

Anyway, it's a lie when they say your eyes just blink awake. Bleary and cloudy, then as the starch gradually settles to the bottom and the skim rises to the top, at last my eyes wearily open. Mornings seem forced to me. So much sadness rises up, I can't bear it. I hate it, I really do. I'm an awful sight in the morning. My legs feel so exhausted that, already, I don't want to do a thing. I wonder if it's because I don't sleep well. It's a lie when they say you feel healthy in the morning. Mornings are grey. Always the same. Absolutely empty. Lying in bed each morning, I'm always so pessimistic. It's awful, really. All kinds of terrible regrets converge at once in my mind, and my heart stops up as I writhe in agony.
Mornings are torture.

Life is a nightmare that prevents one from sleeping.