I don’t think I will ever be happy. A meaningful life is not within my grasp. There is no version of me from this point that can get there. No version that can be content with how things are, or feel at peace.
I still have hope, but it’s irrational hope. It’s constantly smacking it’s head against the logical reality of who I am, and how I’ve lived, and it’s painful. It would be better for me to let it go. But if I do that, what else is left?
So what am I doing here? I’m suffering. Either I’m stressed out from work, or exhausted, or uncomfortable from my body’s many minor ailments. Or I’m tormenting myself with an imagined life that can never be real.
Of course everybody suffers. But for most people, it’s for something. They can put their suffering in some greater context that allows them to be ok with it.
What am I living for? Because I’m scared of death? Because of what I fear losing me would do to my family? Because my irrational hope will not die, regardless of how much evidence it sees that it is unfounded?
None of that is enough, when you’re suffering. Fear brings no comfort. I love my family, but it’s not enough to make what I experience seem worthwhile. I just feel resentful of them for being an anchor, keeping me here. And my false hopes provide no comfort whatsoever.