Same Old.

This life isn’t something that should be, surely. The chronic background of fear, guilt, shame, regret, despair, numbed by addictive hedonism. Better not to be. Nothing good can come of it. If anyone should kill themselves, it’s me. So why am I still here?

Maybe I fear cosmic justice catching up to me beyond the grave. Being left alone to face all that fear and despair with no means to push it down any longer. If I could somehow be certain that it was the end, then perhaps it would seem more appealing, and less like an existential leap in the dark.

Or it could be that I can’t bring myself to do it to my family. They’ve invested so much in me, and they don’t deserve to have my despair dropped on to them. Thinking about what it would do to my mum especially…it just seems unjustifiable. If there was some way to make them understand, to make sure they’d be ok, that they’d just forget me, then it might be something I could do in good conscience.

Perhaps it’s just dumb survival instinct, in which case I wonder whether I can bring myself to overcome it, even if things became agonisingly painful. Or maybe it’s attachment to being, to this self and it’s experiences – my memories, desires, cravings, addictions.

I want it to end, but it doesn’t seem like I’m prepared to do what’s necessary. I don’t know whether that’s a good choice or not, or even why I’m really making it day after day.

I wonder how many times I’ve written copies of this sentiment over the last 5 years. I’ve been stuck in this holding pattern for so long now – without hope or purpose or any resolution in sight. I just keep on in my misery…because I don’t know what else to do.

I’m fairly sure this isn’t hell…it’s not excruciating enough. Much of the time I’m able to push it all down and focus on the small meaningless distractions that pass in front of me. But there’s no hope here. There’s no way out. There’s no overcoming. There’s no escape. No peace. How do I sleep at night? Poorly, that’s how.

I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe it never will. But it’s in my head, the awareness of what I’ve done and what I am. It’s always there, in the background, casting a shadow over everything.

Possibly the outskirts of hell. The suburbs? Trapped on a train moving at snail’s pace toward the centre. Everything could almost be fine, it’s not too uncomfortable, there’s still some nice views out of the window. But there is most definitely no way out. And in the distance some terrible shapes begin to emerge…