What's the first thing I do when I wake up in the morning? Wish

“What’s the first thing I do when I wake up in the morning? Wish I hadn’t.” Thus spoke Morrissey, the singer and poet whose words often bleed with melancholy and irony. At first glance, the statement seems drenched in despair, a lament against the burden of existence. Yet beneath its bleakness lies a profound recognition of the human condition: that to awaken is not always to rejoice, and that life, with its disappointments and sorrows, can weigh so heavily upon the soul that even the dawn feels unwelcome. His words echo the voices of countless seekers before him, who have struggled with the question of whether life is worth rising to face each day.

The origin of this saying flows from Morrissey’s long career as a lyricist of sadness, whose art is shaped by irony, alienation, and the exploration of despair. His music has been the voice of those who feel estranged, misunderstood, or trapped within the dull machinery of daily life. By confessing that he sometimes wishes he had not awoken, he gives expression to a feeling many know but seldom voice: the heaviness of living, the longing to escape the endless repetition of days. In this way, the quote is not merely complaint—it is solidarity with the weary.

The ancients, too, knew such sentiments. In the Epic of Gilgamesh, the great king, faced with death and grief, cries out against the futility of life. Ecclesiastes, in the Hebrew scriptures, declares, “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity,” lamenting that the sun rises and sets but nothing truly changes. Even in Greek tragedy, heroes often wished for death rather than endure sorrow. Morrissey’s words are modern echoes of these timeless laments, showing us that despair is not a passing mood of one man but a thread woven deep into the fabric of human history.

Yet history also offers another voice—that despair, when spoken aloud, can itself become healing. Consider Abraham Lincoln, who wrestled with deep melancholy throughout his life. At times he confessed that he wished he would not wake, that the weight of the world was too much to carry. And yet, in facing his darkness, he found a strange strength, leading a fractured nation through its most painful trial. His melancholy did not destroy him—it shaped his compassion, his patience, and his greatness. Morrissey, in a similar way, transforms his despair into art, and through that art, he offers others the comfort of recognition.

From this we learn that to feel despair is not shameful. To awaken and wish you had not is a confession many hearts have known, though few have dared to admit it. The value of Morrissey’s words is that they strip away pretense. They remind us that life is not always met with joy, but that even in sorrow there is truth—and truth, once spoken, can free us. For in honesty lies the seed of resilience, and in shared despair lies the beginning of hope.

Practical wisdom follows: when the morning feels heavy, when waking feels like a curse, do not turn away from the feeling. Name it. Speak it. Write it. Sing it. By bringing it into the light, as Morrissey has, you strip it of some of its power. Seek also the small rituals that may anchor you—walks, prayers, conversations, or the gentleness of art itself. These do not erase despair, but they keep the flame alive until joy returns. And if joy does not return swiftly, know that even endurance itself is a kind of victory.

Thus, remember Morrissey’s words: “Wish I hadn’t.” They are not merely the cry of one man but a mirror of the ancient struggle with existence. And yet, hidden within them is a paradox: though he wishes he had not awoken, he did awaken, and in that awakening he sang. He turned despair into song, and in that song gave comfort to millions. So too may we: even when the dawn feels unwelcome, we may still rise, still speak, still create. And in doing so, we may discover that what begins in despair can, through courage, become a gift to others.