16,425 days

16,425 days. Or 45 years. That’s roughly how much longer I could expect to live, supposing I had an average natural life span. That’s an awfully long time to spend alone, full of self-hatred, guilt, regret, despair, and longing. I’m pretty sure I could take another week, month, year, possibly even another decade like this. But 45 years? And it only gets harder over time, as I get older and memories of happiness fade. I first felt this despair 12 years ago, but I hadn’t sunk so deep then. I could still hold an irrational hope that things would change. But the longer you spend like this, and the older you get, the less space is left for hope. It becomes clearer and clearer that no one can save you from yourself, and that you’re too screwed up to save yourself.

I don’t want to feel like this anymore, but I don’t know how to stop. I want to numb it all away and forget. I want peace. To be tranquillised. Maybe I should try stronger drugs, but I’m scared it would make things worse. I can’t seem to make meditation stick. No matter how many times I remind myself that the self is a delusion, the delusion returns.

I just want not to be me anymore. To swap experiences with someone who isn’t sick in the head. That would be nice. Imagine not having a constant background awareness of your own awfulness. Imagine being able to experience moments of real happiness. I’ve never felt that as an adult. What the fuck is that even like? Having some kind of contentment with the state of your life?

16,425 days from now odds are I’ll be far more bitter, twisted, lonely, and despairing, but still clinging to dreams of a life long gone. I just can’t seem to let go.