It’s so absurd, the position I’ve got myself to. To despise myself so much, to feel so utterly worthless, yet still be so attached to being. To the memory of who I used to think I was, before I learned better. To the fantasy of who I could’ve been.
I have no idea how to reconcile those conflicting emotions. I should be dead. I shouldn’t exist. I’m a stain on this earth. But I don’t think I can wipe myself away. I’m still so attached to this world. Or to an idea of it. To being. To thinking. To conceptualising. Addicted to the contents of my own mind.
Perhaps all that lies beneath that is pure survival instinct. Must avoid death long enough to propagate my sub-par genetics. If so, am I even capable of overriding such instincts?
On the one hand, I shouldn’t exist. On the other hand, fear of death. Fear of making the ultimate mistake. Is it rational to fear death, when it comes for us all? But I do. I fear the effects on family. I fear the experience of dying. But mostly, I think I fear the irreversible finality of it. I’m afraid of somehow making the wrong existential decision. What if death isn’t the end, and something worse awaits? What if a meaningful life was possible after all, and I just couldn’t see it?
I can’t see how I’d ever be able to overcome those fears, without something even more terrifying in this world pushing me to do so. Which leaves me stuck here for the foreseeable future.
Rationally, I should be attempting to minimise the amount of suffering I cause myself while here. But I can’t seem to bring myself to do even that. I suppose I’m addicted to my suffering – to scratching away at my psychological scars. To reminding myself what could’ve been. Pain is often the only thing that seems meaningful – without it I’d be lost somehow – just empty and blank. In short, I’m completely fucked.