It’s the loss of control
No, it isn’t giving up your motor functions. You can move, you can talk and you can open and close your eyes; but open eyes see a hostile world that tolerates its own crumbling demise, but not yours, and closed eyes see the slanted razor you most certainly think will take the pain away. Move, if you wish, but wherever your legs carry you, your shame and guilt, your self condemnation will follow at your heels, eating away at your resolve and desire. Speak, my friend. Speak, but only what they want, because anything but is a pretension of higher knowledge to them, or at the other end, a spill of useless dribble. Try and stay in your own head to escape the worldly pain, and you find your thoughts slipping from your own grasp, being muddled, your attentions unfocused and every idea finding no constant within this solitary battlefield you call your mind. No, it isn’t the loneliness that gets me. It isn’t even the pain of heartbreak, and the knowledge of even more to come.
It’s the loss of control