It seems that everyone is in the position of gambling on the nature of reality. By delaying ending my life, I am wagering that something terrible doesn’t happen in the mean time. Or that it will somehow pay off in terms of future happiness or fulfillment. Or that my endurance of suffering will be worth it in terms of protecting my parents and sister from the devastation of loss.
My problem is that I have no confidence in any of these reasons. There is every reason to believe that at some part, it will all fall apart. That my past will catch up with me, bringing with it violence, social stigma, and ruin.
There is very little reason to believe that I will ever find any degree of fulfillment or happiness. I’m incredibly isolated and lonely, but I don’t think I’m capable of any degree of intimacy. I’m a bad person, in ways no one could tolerate. There’s things about me that I can’t change, that can’t be forgiven, that I have to hide. I have to lie, to pretend that I’m not a terrible person in order to get close to anyone. So what’s the point?
I do think my family would be devastated by my loss. My mum in particular is far too emotionally invested in me. They should have disowned me years ago. I can see them falling apart. I don’t know if I could knowingly do that to them, after all they’ve done for me.
On the other hand, I’m already hurting them, by failing to be a functional, decent member of society. And knowing that isn’t enough to change me. Does it really matter if it does destroy them? I feel it does, but perhaps that’s delusional. Everyone’s dead ultimately. Everything falls apart. Does it really matter if they have to face the despair of that sooner rather than later?
And if I do decide to keep living in order to delay that…how would I even do it? If I have no other reason to live, other than protecting their feelings. How do I motivate myself to function, if I just want it all to end? Living like that seems tortuous.
I’m scared. Of death, of dying. Of it not being the end. I fear becoming trapped in a state of suffering, in this life or the next. I assume that what constitutes ‘my experience’ comes to an end upon death. But I don’t know. Do I take that gamble? Why delay, if I have to face it sooner or later?
In order to give my family a few more years of clinging to the hope that I’ll somehow turn it around? To cling to my own fantasies of living a real life? Blind survival instinct?
By continuing to live I’m constantly making wagers. But I have no faith in my ability to make smart choices. Much of the time, it seems it would be better if I were dead. Part of me longs to just…stop. To no longer carry the weight of being this self. But I’m also terrified of letting go. I’m so deeply emotionally attached to fantasies of life.