I will never experience any of the things that I feel to be meaningful in life. So why bother trying? Why put all that effort into improving my health, to earning more money, to improving my social skills. If it’s all going to amount to nothing I really care about, why force myself through all that? Why get out of bed every morning?
The answer is that if I don’t, things will get worse more quickly. I’ll end up even more isolated, in more physical pain, with worse money worries.
It all makes logical sense. If I’m not going to kill myself, and it seems I’m not, then all that remains is to try to improve whatever remains of my life.
The problem is that I can’t bring myself to really care. Because the things that I actually want from life are beyond my grasp, beyond plans and improvements and work. There’s no route to them. They’re forever lost in the past, down the road not travelled.
So every day, forcing myself out of bed is a struggle. To exercise, and do chores, buy groceries, complete work projects. It’s like I’m wading through treacle. Every little thing is slow, arduous, effortful. The most minor exertion requires a concentration of will. Because it’s not for anything that I actually want. And a large part of me doesn’t want to be here anymore.