Weighing It Up

I don’t want to die enough to do it impulsively. Maybe I never will. My inhibitions are simply too strong. I think the only way I’d get there is if I can convince myself fully that it’s the best choice, then slowly but consistently build up to the act itself.

But it’s hard to know how to find that kind of conviction. In terms of consequences, I believe it would devastate my family, especially my mother (she’s way too invested in my wellbeing.) It’s hard to see how they’d get over it. They definitely don’t deserve to go through that. And obviously the impact of death ripples out.

But in terms of consequences for the wider world, it’s probably positive. I’m pretty shitty as a person, and that’s unlikely to change much. I don’t think I have it in me to make a positive contribution to this world. Even if I don’t do something more horrific in future, having one less person consuming is probably better. Just in terms of all the animals that won’t suffer to provide me with food it’s probably a plus.

Weighing up my personal experience, it’s hard to say. It’s not that things are so objectively horrific right now. I’m not in agony. I’m just sad, and tired, and sick of being me. And I’ve felt this way for so long, and I see no prospect of it improving. I’m relying on hedonism to take the edge off, but it gets old. I can still enjoy things – I still appreciate music for example. But there’s no meaning anymore, to anything. It’s just temporary flashy lights and chemicals, lighting up my brain. But there’s no sense that it’s leading to anything, or for anything. There is no real goal or purpose beyond taking my mind off the gnawing sense of despair. I think perhaps it’s the difference between pleasure and contentment. There is no peace for me, anywhere. I haven’t felt truly relaxed, or calm, or at peace, or hopeful in over a decade.

So, no more highs, no more flashing lights or excitement. But also no more lows. No more longing, craving, self-hatred or despair. An end to the shame of being me – of being this worthless. No more feeling inferior. And no more tiredness, fear, or nausea.

It’s tricky to judge, but probably it would be better for me if I ceased to exist. But does that mean that, rationally speaking, I should put myself out of my misery, overcoming my animal desire to survive at all costs? Should it outweigh the devastation it seems likely to cause to family? I don’t have a clue, and that is why I’ll never do anything. Fuck.