The question seems to be how to cause myself minimal suffering while I’m still here. This is a problem. My entire psychology seems to be tailored toward self-aggravation. To seeking out the things I want but can’t have, so I can feel good and miserable about it. To search for reminders of the acts I feel the most guilt for. To wallowing in my complete isolation.
Life is not good for me. Living is not good. Experiencing the world through the prism of this mind generates needless unhappiness. It would be better if I could spend most of each day unconscious. Wake up every now and again to say high to family and pretend everything is ok, then go back to being comatose. But I have to find a way to function, somehow.
Some way to drag myself out of bed each morning, and push down all the pain and despair, and get stuff done with the energy I don’t have. I’m not living for anything. I’m living because I’m scared of death, and because it’s probably best for my parents and sister. That’s pretty much it. A few hollow distractions, but nothing has any meaning. The hours drag until I can go back to bed. I dream of people I used to know, back when I still had hope. I dream of mundane anxiety. I wake up exhausted, and lie in a hazy state until hunger finally pushes me up. Every morning I ask myself why. I fantasize about an end, and wonder if I’m ready. Always I discover that I’m not.
I need some new lie to tell myself, to get me through. Some fresh delusion. Or I need to try new drugs.