Alone

Even when I’m with people, I’m alone. Morally, psychologically. I’ve cut myself off from humanity. So now I have to act, with everyone. I have to pretend I’m not this sick twisted thing. Because who I really am is too repulsive. I shouldn’t be allowed to exist in society.

It’s hard to say whether this was always in me, looking for a way out. Maybe in different circumstances I would’ve turned out better.

But I did this to myself, and now I have to live with it. Or not.

Why go on living, when every interaction you have with others is deceitful, and robbed of meaning? When genuine connection is impossible?

Fear. Of death. Of dying. Fear of hell – of receiving my just deserts. Of the effects on family.

And attachment. Clinging to ideas of who I thought I was, or could be. The life I could have.

But none of it’s real. Because I’ve irreversibly cut myself off from humanity. So I’ll walk through the rest of this life alone, whether or not I’m with someone, longing for some kind of authentic or meaningful shared experience. To feel on the same wavelength as anyone, or be accepted.

It could be worse. I could be in crippling pain, rather than just persistent physical discomfort.

But it’s so hard to motivate yourself to live, when you have nothing to live for. I spend days in bed, not even eating. Even preparing to be able to end your life takes motivation and planning (at least in the peaceful ways I have in mind.)

I have no way of making the suffering of this life worthwhile or meaningful.

But it seems I’m addicted to it.