There’s something extremely destabilising about not having a clear idea what you’re living for. If I examine the narratives I tell myself about what’s keeping me here, none of them are sufficient to help me to live a functional life.
I’m not killing myself because of a strong attachment to an unrealistic and idealised fantasy of a possible life (romantic love, inner peace, freedom from pain.) But if it’s obvious that it’s highly unrealistic, then what good does that do me? What does it give me to work towards, to motivate me to get out of bed in the morning, to get my life in better order, to face the pain of existence? If there’s no hope to the fantasy, then it’s just another way to torture myself.
I’m not killing myself because I have the same instinctive aversion to death as the vast majority of other animals. Probably true, but leaves me with the unsettling possibility that I will endure anything in life, no matter how degrading or painful, simply to prolong it for a few more seconds. Which is scary. Because life can get so much worse than it is right now. And there’s things I’m really terrified of going through, that I don’t want to experience. Rationally, I don’t want to be that desperate creature willing to be dehumanized in order to cling to existence. But I’m worried there’s a deeper subconscious part of me that is actually in the driving seat, that will always overrule any decision that actually intends to end my existence.
I’m not killing myself because it would devastate my family. It would, but I don’t care enough about them to get my life in order for their sake. It might be different if I had kids – then I could tell myself I had a stake in the future that I had a strong responsibility to preserve. But it’s just my parents and my sister. I see my parents once a week at most, and my sister a few times a year. Most days we’re completely unaware of each other’s existence. So they’re not a sufficiently meaningful part of my life to live for. Which doesn’t mean I can tolerate the thought of breaking their hearts. But that just leaves me in this unsatisfying middle ground, where killing myself is wrong but continuing to live is pointless.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here. I haven’t done for at least 15 years. I destroyed my own narrative about who I was and what I’m doing in life. I used to be able to tell myself that I was a good person. Then I did things that no good person would ever do, repeatedly, for years, for no good reason. And now I can’t conceive of any future where I could ever think that of myself again. I pretended to myself that I would discover some fundamental truth about reality that would make it all make sense, but I’ve spent enough time lost in the thoughts of others to be sceptical of any kind of ultimate knowledge.
I assumed that I would eventually take the normal path of meeting someone and settling down, having a family. But I massively doubt my ability to function socially or in any kind of relationship, and I can’t justify ever fathering children.
So I’m lost. And I’ve been lost so long that I doubt the possibility of ever finding a meaningful path. Being lost is all I know. It’s my uncomfortable comfort zone. And I’m in pain, and extremely lonely, and full of regret. But I took a sleeping pill, so probably I’ll be unconscious soon, and get to have weird anxiety dreams where my landlord moves people into my house without telling me, or people I knew at school leave me feeling humiliated. So that’ll be fun.