I Want to Die but I Want to Eat Tteokbokki: Summary & Key Insights

When I first sat across from my psychiatrist, I struggled to describe what was wrong. I wasn’t collapsing or unable to get out of bed; I was simply numb. My emotions felt dulled, distant—as if I was observing myself from behind glass. I told him I could laugh when necessary and cry when it seemed appropriate, yet those reactions were hollow, mechanical. He asked simple questions: 'Do you often feel that nothing matters?' 'Do you think you fake your emotions?' My answers were yes and yes.

At that time, I didn’t know the term dysthymia. I thought depression was only tears and isolation. But mine was quieter and persistent—it let me function just enough to convince myself I was fine. Therapy began with awkward honesty. The psychiatrist would probe, and I would dodge. Talking felt unsafe, even shameful. Still, the act of sitting there, week after week, began the process of peeling layers off my silence. Naming the numbness was the first fragile victory.

As therapy continued, I started noticing my deep discomfort with myself. I often described feeling like a fraud—someone whose outer appearance projected calm competence, while underneath I berated myself endlessly. The psychiatrist called it self-loathing, though at first, I resisted the word. It sounded too dramatic, too absolute. But he was right: my internal dialogue was crueler than anything others said to me.

I analyzed moments from my day—how I corrected myself before finishing a sentence, how I replayed interactions to search for flaws. I realized my problem wasn’t simply sadness; it was the endless judgment I imposed on myself. This discovery hurt, yet it gave form to what had felt shapeless for years. I began to see that I filled the gap between who I was and who I wanted to be with negativity. Dysthymia fed off that gap—it convinced me I deserved no joy, and so I stopped seeking it.