I should probably end it. Especially if I’m not going to do the right thing (I’m not.) People like me shouldn’t be. You reach a certain level of moral corruption and you’re no longer capable of living a normal life. And I just don’t have it in me to do the whole self-sacrificing redemption arc thing. So, self-destruction it is.
But that requires letting go. Detaching from all the impossible dreams I’ve built up over the years. Affirming that all the beauty present in this world is not worth tolerating this kind of suffering and alienation for. Allowing the full weight of my self-inflicted misery to finally infect those who care for me.
I just don’t think I have the heart to do it. To let go of who I could’ve been. To draw a line under the failure of my life. To contaminate all the positive memories of my youth with the truth of my ultimate worthlessness. I can’t seem to do it. I’m too hooked on the delusions of my past. I can’t bring myself to crush it all. To crumple up the repulsively stained script of my life and throw it in the trash where it belongs.
But I should. And that’s a real mindfuck. To know I shouldn’t exist, but keep attempting to continue. So many opportunities for self-sabotage.
It would seem rational to attempt to minimise the amount of suffering I cause myself while still in existence. Except that I deserve to suffer. People like me should suffer. Any happiness or peace I did find would be a further failure of conscience.
Apparently it’s not enough to fear the flames and pitchforks. You must repent of your actions in your heart. And I don’t. Not unequivocally. That’s the funny thing about evil – it doesn’t leave you, even when you recognise it. I can understand something’s wrong, and feel guilty and ashamed at times, yet still want to do it again at others.
So I’m not reformed, repenting, contrite, or saved. I’m essentially channelling my own evil, attempting to avoid contaminating others too badly whilst doing so. But I really shouldn’t. I should cease existence. I’m a cancer. A public health risk.
Dopamine distractions are always tempting, but tend to end in other kinds of suffering. Tearing it all down is fun while it lasts, but all I’m often left with is a greater awareness of how far I’ve fallen.
I’m alone, with the constant fear of the guilt and the evil within. A little hell of my own creation. Maintaining any kind of resolve feels impossible.