Life for some us unlucky humans is composed of many different forms of 24/7 sensory suffering, and you'd think a ratio of 99:1 of suffering to pleasure would be enough for the mind to radically spur the growth of unique brain architectures, neural connections and shape shift to program us for a more silenced survival instinct, because the organism is no longer capable of endogenously synthesizing positive sensory inputs, but cruelly enough, the diametrically opposite is true:
―The more we suffer, the more suicidal ideation, but the instinct to survive, something that we are usually unaware of, actually starts materializing a persona of its own, prioritizing its needs above all else―impersonating itself as one of your personality traits, in order to deal you delusions of hope and terror, all so you don't fold your cards prematurely and CTB.
My psyche's current configuration and pattern of thinking are sickening. Logically―my life is over. Nothing is left but inexplicable torment; and it's filled with progressively worsening luck and financial burden. But the brain... the mind, my PSYCHE, which I wish I could summon in human form and strangle to death, they all continue to perpetuate my existence, without my consent.