The suffering I’ve endured from playing Call Of Duty is a complex blend of mental, emotional, and even physical pain. It begins with the countless hours spent grinding in competitive matches, where every loss feels like a personal failure, a reflection of my inadequacies. I’ve experienced the gut-wrenching agony of getting matched with teammates who seem to have no regard for teamwork or strategy, leaving me to carry the game on my own shoulders. The weight of that responsibility crushes my spirit, especially when I still lose despite my best efforts. Every missed shot feels like a betrayal of my own hands, a reminder that no matter how many hours I pour into improving my aim or game sense, there are still moments where I am utterly powerless. The suffocating tension of a 1v1 clutch situation is something I’ve felt in my bones, the pressure building as the seconds tick away, my palms sweating, heart racing, only to die to some sniper crouching in a corner, completely erasing any hope of victory.

The toxicity of the community adds another layer to the pain. It’s not just the personal failures; it’s the verbal abuse that follows. No matter how well I play, there’s always that one teammate who’s quick to hurl insults, to tear down whatever little confidence I’ve built. The constant barrage of blame, the accusations that I’m throwing the game or that I’m a noob, gnaws away at my self-esteem. Every match feels like a battlefield, not just against the enemy team but against my own squad, fighting to maintain my mental stability while being bombarded by insults, racial slurs, and unnecessary aggression. Then there’s the pain of seeing a perfectly executed strategy fall apart due to one small mistake, whether it's a missed flashbang or an ill-timed push. The frustration builds with every game, the crushing realization that even though I’ve spent hundreds, maybe thousands, of hours in the game, I’m still not where I want to be skill-wise.

Physically, the game has taken its toll as well. My back and wrists ache from sitting in the same position for hours, hunched over, eyes glued to the screen, fingers moving in a precise, rapid-fire rhythm. The late nights have robbed me of sleep, leaving me exhausted, but I can’t stop playing because I’m chasing that one good game, that fleeting moment of victory that keeps me coming back, even though deep down I know that satisfaction will never outweigh the frustration. Call Of Duty has become a cycle of suffering, where each win is quickly overshadowed by a string of losses, and every moment of joy is drowned out by the ever-present, gnawing feeling of defeat.

10/10

My Grandfather smoked his whole life. I was about 10 years old when my mother said to him, 'If you ever want to see your grandchildren graduate, you have to stop immediately.' Tears welled up in his eyes when he realized what exactly was at stake. He gave it up immediately. Three years later he died of lung cancer. It was really sad and destroyed me. My mother said to me- 'Don't ever smoke. Please don't put your family through what your Grandfather put us through." I agreed. To this day, I have never touched a cigarette. I must say, I feel a very slight sense of regret for never having done it, because this game gave me cancer anyway.