thehusk

I wanted this tiny issue resolved, after wasting a whole day on it. So I persisted. I faced my fear. I tried other avenues. I panicked. Now I feel shame. I feel fear. I feel…pathetic.

Some people were nice. Some were alarmed. The minor issue is somewhat resolved, though threads lie untied.

But I feel…worthless.  Pathetic. Inferior. Disgusting. Inadequate. Hopeless. Like the ground should just swallow me up.

Nothing significantly bad will result. Those who think worse of me are unlikely to do anything about it. Nothing major will happen.

But I have exposed myself as unworthy – as inadequate – as weird, erratic, inferior, pathetic. I have allowed the world to see my weakness, my shame.

In a few days, this tiny incident will join the exhaustive list of times I felt socially out of my depth. But right now, I just want not to be. I want this feeling to stop. I want a drink, but there’s no drink in the house.

I’m alone, with my shame & self-hatred.

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I find people…difficult. Maybe everyone does. I don’t know. Most don’t seem to get so hung up on the little things. There’s this feeling inside of paralysis, of wrongness, when it comes to minor social interactions. I don’t know what’s appropriate. I am consumed by doubt. I fear negative judgement.

Do I insistently bang loudly upon the door until someone answers, or return some other time? Do I wait for that organisation to call me back, or take matters into my own hands, risking later confusion & annoyance? Is my uncertainty a demonstration of foolishness? Of lack of common sense? Would any normal person know what to do in this situation? Is this a sign of weakness? Or cowardice?

That’s what I fear – showing any sign to the world of my inferiority. My wrongness.

Rationally, I know these things are trivial. Nothing disastrous will result, whatever the outcome. No matter how weird or pathetic or inferior people perceive me to be, the world will continue to spin. Death, disease, famine & war will continue unaltered.

But still, it’s the little things that unsettle me. The not knowing what to do, or how to be. The feeling of wrongness, & uncertainty. That whatever choice I make, it will be wrong. And that will somehow unveil my inner wrongness to the world. And disaster will follow.

No one can ever see my weakness. That’s been my thing for so long. It started off as trying to hide little inadequacies. But now it’s trying to cover up monstrous, cancerous character flaws.

Writing this made me feel a little better, for a while. No matter what results from such little things, it’s highly unlikely to have any significant impact on my life. It could go humiliatingly, cringe-inducingly awfully, and nothing would change.

But still, the unease will persist, until the matter is somehow settled. Because in the mean time I don’t know what to do, or how to be, and I have this embedded sense of wrongness inside.

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So…I should kill myself, because I’m a worthless piece of shit. But I’m not going to, because I’m a coward. Which leaves me having to face my own worthless shittiness.

The obvious solution would be to stop being such a worthless piece of shit. But that’s easier said than done. My instinct is to be that way. When I try to do otherwise, it feels worse. It’s like the wrongness in me is constantly fighting to be expressed. Constantly suppressing it is an effort I’m just not motivated to maintain.

So, realistically, I’m not going to change. I’m not going to kill myself. I’m just going to go on, as this pathetic thing that I am, until something really bad happens. And then I’ll finally see how foolish I was to waste all this time, but it’ll be too late. Still, however bad it gets, eventually it will be over. Everyone dies, one way or another.

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I am torn between two views of reality, and of the self.

One is that the self is dependent on the brain. It changes as the brain changes, and as the brain is damaged by injury or disease. Who you are is what your brain does. As the brain dies and is broken down and subsumed into other organisms, so the self fragments and is dissipated.

The other is that the self can somehow transcend death, and will be held to account for it’s actions in life. That it is a discrete entity, which can be detached from the world, and judged alone. That in some sense it is eternal.

These things are mutually contradictory, yet somehow I believe them both, one rationally, the other emotionally. Try as I might, I cannot seem to settle on one or the other as an approach to reality. It leaves me in two minds about everything, especially suicide.

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I should be researching methods, ordering equipment, preparing. If I was serious, that’s what I’d be doing. Instead I procrastinate. Clearly, I don’t want to die enough.

I just desperately want to not feel this way anymore. To not have the experience of being me anymore. To not have this guilt, shame, regret, craving, self-hatred constantly hanging over me. I want to be free of myself. But I’m simultaneously too attached to it all to let go.

Killing myself would devastate my family. So I shouldn’t do it. But it would (probably) put an end to my suffering. So I should do it.

It seems you can’t change the past. So I’m stuck with this reality. I’m stuck being this person. I should either end it, or make the best of it. But I don’t seem to have the motivation or ability to do either. I just want out. I want an experience that isn’t this.

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I don’t know what to do. In one sense, I should kill myself. I’m a terrible person. I’ve done awful things in the past, and part of me wants to do worse. And recognising objectively that I’m a bad person doesn’t motivate me to be much better in future. My conscience fades in and out, like a radio station – some times there’s just no signal, and I want to do the worst things imaginable (though fortunately I have little ability to). People like me shouldn’t exist. I don’t want to exist as this person, during times when my conscience is stronger. It feels wrong to continue to exist. So I should end myself.

On the other hand, doing so would devastate my parents and sister in the worst way. They’re all good people, living relatively meaningful lives. My sister is getting married in the spring. Killing myself would likely cause them all a degree of suffering equivalent or worse to what I experience. So…I shouldn’t do that, on the basis that tripling significant suffering would be bad.

I keep thinking I should wait until the balance changes – until something gets much worse in my life, or one of my parents dies, and my suicide would cause less suffering. But that leaves me having to live with all this conflict. Hating myself one minute, consumed by terrible impulses the next, then terrified. I don’t know how to live like this – how to be this thing that shouldn’t exist. It hurts too much.

Then there’s also all the other stuff that normal people have to deal with. There’s parts of me that are terrified of death. There are bits that long for companionship, relationship, goodness – all the things I’ve made impossible for myself. I don’t know whether even if I decided I should kill myself I would have the motivation to do so.

I’m so insanely lost and confused. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know whether I should kill myself, and I don’t know how to live with myself in the meantime.

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Every so often I get a reminder of how bad existence in this world can really get. A common theme is a depiction of someone burning to death. Today it was a film clip of someone caught in the blast of a nuclear explosion. Apparently, if you’re a certain distance from the centre, you don’t get vaporised, but it’s so hot that everything around you catches on fire – your hair, your clothes, everything. Now obviously this was played up for dramatic effect, but the level of agony, terror, and sheer animal desperation depicted on this character’s face rang true.

Every time I come across something like that, I find myself thinking; ‘What’s that like? What’s it like to be in that kind of desperate state? Surely it’s better to end your life now, rather than continue to face the risk of that kind of experience?’

Now obviously, the chances of dying in a nuclear blast are currently remote. The most common causes of death in the west are heart attack and stroke – effects of age (or morbid obesity.) I would expect a fair degree of warning before that kind of health problem was close – time enough to check out on my own terms. Likewise with cancer, which sounds like a potentially wretched way to die – plenty of time to choose my end.

But people do die, in violent accidents, all the time. The longer one lives, the greater the chance that it’s you in that car crash, or trapped in the burning building, or being savaged to death by a hamster with a vendetta.

And that’s not to mention the potential for future global instability. The peace we enjoy in the west is a historical blip. War is the norm for human society. On a planet with a rapidly expanding population, with rapidly diminishing environmental capacity, and tens of thousands of nuclear weapons, what are the chances that things don’t kick off sooner or later? What happens when food supplies collapse in Russia, or China, or India? Do they just accept that and let their people starve, or do they start eyeing up their neighbours? And if that happens, how long before someone pushes a big red button?

My instinctive reaction to all this perceived threat is to want to peace out, ASAP. It seems like I’m a fearful, cowardly person. I’m either more aware of the potential for suffering than most, or I’m more averse to it, or I value life less. But to me, much of the time, nothing in this world seems worth facing that kind of extreme, desperate experience. Life isn’t worth the risk.

The problem with that is that at least part of me believes in consciousness continuing beyond death. And I have an extremely guilty conscience. I’m terrified of having to face judgement, or answer for what I’ve done in life. A significant part of me believes I deserve punishment. And what punishment does monotheism offer? Burning, for eternity, in unending fire.

Now, rationally, this doesn’t seem likely to me. Supposing conscious experience can somehow transcend the death of the brain, it doesn’t make much sense to me that even the worst people would just be endlessly tortured. What possible purpose would that achieve? But then I’m clearly not someone orientated toward existential justice.

Unfortunately, I just don’t have confidence in my rationality, in my capacity to accurately assess reality. I have this deep and abiding dread of the other shoe dropping, of my crimes finally catching up with me, and my worldview proving to be a delusion.

So I’ve managed to trap myself in this strange psychological prison. Life is terrible, because of the enormous capacity for extreme suffering. But death is also terrible, because it exposes me to unknown quantities of negative experience in the great beyond. Clever me.

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Since it seems I’m not going to be ending my life (at least for the time being), that leaves me trying to improve my current experience. I’m just not sure how. I’m so tired, afraid, isolated, despairing, full of self-hatred etc. Then there’s all the physical discomfort I’m in. I just want to zone out and totally disconnect from reality. But I can’t. If I’m going to try and survive, I need to find some way to function.

But I don’t know how to do that without making myself feel worse. There always seems to be some reminder of my inferiority, my worthlessness, how hopeless it is for me. It just sends me spiralling straight back into the ‘I want to die’ mindset. I’m stuck in this endless loop. I need to figure out some way of engaging with a world that rightfully despises me. But I have nothing to fall back on – no real reasons to live. I’m primarily not killing myself because I’m afraid – of the effect it would have on my parents, and of the possibility of being trapped in a worse state beyond death.

There’s nothing much else for me to live for – no connection is possible. I don’t have the strength in me to face the reality of who I am and my situation. I’m completely alone, floundering in the dark.

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Imagine not being alone. Imagine there was someone you could be around without crippling fear. Imagine being able to let someone, anyone in. Imagine experiencing a sense of peace and contentment. Imagine not having to hide yourself from the world. Imagine not being a twisted evil narcissistic failure of a person. Imagine someone actually knowing you. Imagine emotional intimacy. Imagine a partner, someone truly on your side. Imagine the background hum of dread subsiding. Imagine feeling glad you were alive. Imagine having a future. Imagine not being consumed with shame, guilt and self-hatred. Imagine experiencing real hope again. Imagine not seeing this world as a terrifying ball of threat, loss and misery. Imagine being able to acknowledge the hardships of life without desperately wanting a way out. Imagine feeling gratitude for existence. Imagine going back in time, and doing it all differently. Imagine becoming someone capable of love, contentment and living a full life. Imagine real human connection. Imagine being able to appreciate the moment. Imagine feeling purpose. Imagine warmth. Imagine being ok with reality.

Imagine no longer being what you are. Imagine peace.

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No matter how many times I try and rationally weigh up the idea of ending my life, and decide it’s not time yet, a stubborn part of me just refuses to accept this reality. I just don’t want to live in this world, where I’m this pathetic broken thing. It’s pointless. There’s nothing here for me. I don’t have it in me to be happy anymore. My primary reasons for staying are not wanting to devastate family and fear of death.

But I don’t actually want to live anymore. Not like this. I’ve ruined my life, ruined my self, and there’s no fixing it. I’m just running down the clock, waiting for my loved ones to die. I can do another 15 years, right? Break it down into small chunks. Indulge in a tonne more addictive behaviour. It’ll fly by! But I don’t actually want to. I don’t want to be me, in this world. There’s nothing for me here. I’m wasting space. Wasting life. There could be a functional person in my place, enjoying life, not fucking everything up. Instead there’s me.

Being this hurts. Being me hurts. I don’t know how to live with it. So instead I waste my life away, numbing the days away, looking for any way to escape.

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If it’s preferable to end unnecessary suffering, and I apparently can’t stop myself being miserable, then why aren’t I preparing to end it?

I could say that doing so would make my parents and sister miserable, and that passing my pain on to them wouldn’t be justified. But if it’s love for them that’s stopping me, then why doesn’t that motivate me to pull myself together, instead of constantly dragging them down and stressing them out?

It might be pure unconscious animal survival instinct. But if that’s the case then again, why isn’t it motivating me to do what I need to do to survive long term? I need a reliable source of income, but instead I’m just living off family and my savings, which isn’t sustainable. And if it is survival instinct that’s stopping me from ending my life, is that something I should overcome? Is that even possible?

Maybe it’s lingering attachment to dreams of a life worth living. But if so, why do I feel so hopeless and helpless all the time, certain that nothing is worth doing?

It could be fear of the uncertainty about what happens to consciousness after death. I’m an atheist, but there’s certainly a strong religious element to my psyche. But if that’s it, why isn’t it motivating me to live a morally acceptable life, or even one that I wouldn’t look back on with regret? If I’m so terrified of having to face judgement for the way I’ve lived then why doesn’t that motivate me to be better?

So many questions. I don’t think I know the answers. I don’t know what I believe. I seem to be stuck here, but unable to really accept that fact. I don’t know how to stop being miserable, or make the best of the mess I’ve made of my life. I want to, if I’m going to be here. I want to find some way to accept it, to make my situation as good as it can be. But a part of me is always desperately screaming for a way out, refusing to accept my reality, and that leads me right back here.

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16,425 days. Or 45 years. That’s roughly how much longer I could expect to live, supposing I had an average natural life span. That’s an awfully long time to spend alone, full of self-hatred, guilt, regret, despair, and longing. I’m pretty sure I could take another week, month, year, possibly even another decade like this. But 45 years? And it only gets harder over time, as I get older and memories of happiness fade. I first felt this despair 12 years ago, but I hadn’t sunk so deep then. I could still hold an irrational hope that things would change. But the longer you spend like this, and the older you get, the less space is left for hope. It becomes clearer and clearer that no one can save you from yourself, and that you’re too screwed up to save yourself.

I don’t want to feel like this anymore, but I don’t know how to stop. I want to numb it all away and forget. I want peace. To be tranquillised. Maybe I should try stronger drugs, but I’m scared it would make things worse. I can’t seem to make meditation stick. No matter how many times I remind myself that the self is a delusion, the delusion returns.

I just want not to be me anymore. To swap experiences with someone who isn’t sick in the head. That would be nice. Imagine not having a constant background awareness of your own awfulness. Imagine being able to experience moments of real happiness. I’ve never felt that as an adult. What the fuck is that even like? Having some kind of contentment with the state of your life?

16,425 days from now odds are I’ll be far more bitter, twisted, lonely, and despairing, but still clinging to dreams of a life long gone. I just can’t seem to let go.

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I’m so insanely fucking lonely. And desperate. It’s utterly pathetic. I’ve never not been alone, since I was a kid. I’m too far gone at this point…too isolated and weird. Like I froze my social development at an infant level, but then added all this fucked up stuff on top. I don’t think I’m even capable of being with anyone now. I have no idea how to interact with people in a natural or spontaneous way. I can’t ever relax around others. I hate myself when I’m talking to people. I hate the things that come out of my mouth. I hate myself basically. And that’s not even taking into account all the fucked up awfulness in my mind.

Fuck. I’ve got to find some way to stop wanting to be with someone. Or some way to get to know people that doesn’t make me want to self-immolate. Or I need stronger drugs. Or to finally give up the ghost and end it. I can’t go on wanting like this anymore. It hurts too much.

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The human will is an interesting thing…I can understand intellectually that something is twisted, messed up, evil, harmful, dangerous, unwise…and yet still feel a deep longing to do it.

Which doesn’t mean I will. Obviously I also have significant survival impulses deterring me from more destructive courses of action.

But knowing I’m not going to act on a desire doesn’t make it go away. Instead it just torments me all the more. The longer you deny an urge, the larger it becomes in your psyche.

The question then arises…how do I stop wanting this thing that cannot be acted upon, that is causing me pain? To which there seems to be no clear answer.

Can I choose to enjoy the taste of beetroot, and no longer crave chocolate? Can I choose to enjoy all social interaction, and no longer experience crippling anxiety? Can I choose to find skin irritation or bowel discomfort pleasurable?

If the will is free, then how does one go about changing it? How do you stop wanting what you want?

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Today for the first time my reasons for suicide outweighed my reasons against. Which doesn’t mean I’m going to do anything hasty. I’m still terrified of the idea. But for the first time it seems like the balanced, rational choice, rather than just an emotional reaction. My resistance to it now seems like the irrational emotional response.

I suppose what this mainly reflects is the further erosion of my optimism. I’ve had more time to dwell on what I value in life, and it’s become clearer how slim my chances of finding a meaningful life are. I’ve also been spending more time out and about, which has reminded me how much I struggle to just be around people. I can’t seem to get through a basic social interaction without feeling terrible about myself. So the idea of forging any sort of meaningful connection is laughable.

By far my biggest reason for staying is not wanting to cause devastation to my family, rather than anything in my own life. I have no real life. I’m a shell. But I suppose the thought of them just isn’t enough to outweigh the amount of pain I’m in right now. My own pain just matters more to me than their future pain.

Emotional pain is weird. I guess it’s a kind of delusion. Where is it? Where does it hurt? And yet I’m utterly convinced that I’m in a state of unbearable suffering. My subconscious is constantly in the process of telling me ‘this is terrible, excruciating, awful, unacceptable’. I don’t know how to stop it. How to stop this psych-ache. How to stop hurting myself emotionally. This cycle of despair, self-hatred, guilt, regret, longing, craving. And I don’t know how to live with it. I just want it to stop.

I suppose if my perception stays like this for long enough, maybe I’ll gradually be able to overcome my fear of death.

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I guess I was always somewhat anxious – hesitant, cautious, prone to holding back. But I now find the awareness of all that could go wrong crippling. There are some fairly unique things that could happen to me that don’t threaten most people. But a lot of it is just the general hazard of being alive. What if I get hit by a car, and crippled? What if I’m violently assaulted? What if I get dementia and end up crazily confessing my worst deeds? What if there’s finally a nuclear war? What if at some point in the future an artificial intelligence determines that I’m a deviant and decides to imprison and punish me?

I suppose I’m just a massive coward. Any reminder of how bad existence could get sends me into a tailspin. Any threat of pain terrifies me.

A lot of the time, I’m left with the thought that it would be better to kill myself as quickly and painlessly as possible, to remove any chance of something worse happening to me. But then the thing I’m most afraid of is hell, so that doesn’t seem like such a good choice.

I’m afraid to live, afraid to die, afraid of everything. I’m afraid of existence. I wish I could go back, to when the world seemed a little safer.

But the reality is I have to live with this constant nervous churning in my gut, subconsciously anticipating something terrible.

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Any tips on how to handle it when you have no prospect of things really getting better? It’s not a phase for me – it’s been over a decade like this. I’m too old to believe time will improve anything. This is me now. I’m long past the point where I can see any way out. There’s no hope left.

But I’m still here. I’m too scared to let go, and until something gets drastically worse (which probably will happen eventually), I can’t see that changing.

But I have no idea how to live with this. I’m just full of extreme loneliness, self-hatred, guilt, shame, regret, and it all combines into this crippling despair. Nothing seems worth doing. There’s no peace, no release. Just this awfulness I’ve created around me.

My impulse is to just numb it all away with more self-destructive behaviours, but I don’t want to go too far in that direction anymore. Although I can’t see things getting much better for me now, I’m pretty sure I can still make them significantly worse.

But I don’t know how to live with this experience, day to day, without doing something stupid. Knowing that there’s nothing I can do to make things ok. With no feeling of purpose or comfort. No reason, no future. Just living to delay death.

It seems intolerable. I don’t know how to do it. Continuing to live is killing me inside. I’m a walking open wound. Every crushed hope, every regret – it’s just constant reminders of how shitty I’ve made my own existence, and I don’t know how to stop. There’s no feeling better – just brief periods of denial and distraction, until the reality intrudes once more. Living hurts. Being around people hurts. Thinking about myself hurts. Awareness hurts.

I shouldn’t exist, but I’m too scared to face the leap into darkness.

I need something to get me through until the end comes. Something to take the edge off. Something to tell myself that quiets the desperation. Something to stop myself from self-destructing. I feel like the misery is leaking out of me wherever I go, contaminating everyone around me. I need some way to push it down.

I need a drink, but that would require contact with other people, which would probably make it all feel worse. Not worth it. Guess I’ll settle for a sleeping pill and trying to distract myself from reality until I fall asleep.

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Just having a moan, to try and get some of it out.

I don’t want to live with this reality anymore – where I’m this monstrous, twisted thing. Where I have to hide who I am from everyone because the truth is despicable.

It hurts, and there’s no way to fix it. What’s done is done, the past is in the past. But what’s the point, when you’ve condemned yourself to always being alone? When you can’t ever let anyone in? When you’ve morally isolated yourself from humanity. Where you can never be seen, or known, or feel truly safe with anyone. When you’re that alone, what’s the point?

There is no point to my life. I’ve robbed myself of any possibility of meaning.

I guess I’m just too much of a coward to end it. Either that, or I’m still clinging to some delusional sense that things will just magically shift – that somehow, none of it will matter anymore, and someone will come along and save me from myself. Plus I don’t want to screw up my parents lives more than I already have. They’ve invested so much in trying to help me, more than anyone could expect. To bring down that kind of devastation on them…I don’t think I could do it, not unless something extreme happens. Although if they ever found out the truth that might be worse for them.

But it hurts. So fucking much. Just living with this reality, of who I am, and what I’ve done. I don’t want to face this anymore. I want to escape. I want to be someone else. I want this loneliness & isolation to end. I want peace, love, and understanding.

But I guess I’ll have to settle for a bottle of wine and some electronic entertainment.

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For somebody who loves to think deeply about things, I’m incredibly superficial. On some level the attractiveness of others is all that really has meaning to me. Craving for beauty makes up a vast part of my subconscious.

It’s not that I don’t value personality, or intelligence, or kindness. But it’s always secondary to how I view others. Someone who is visually appealing but stupid or cruel is to be desired or envied in my mind, whereas someone who is strong, wise, compassionate, or entertaining is nevertheless pitiable if they’re plain looking.

Of course, we’re visual creatures, but I think this is a particular pathology of my psychology. It might be down to my lack of close relationships with others, that I’ve never fully learned to value people for who they are rather than what they look like. I’ve somehow never managed to internalise what most take to be obvious.

This part of my mind still seems to be trapped in the mould of a teenager, idealising a crush who’s out of his league. No matter how many people I meet in real life who show me the value of personality and character, and the beauty to be found in the everyday and flawed, this part drags me back to a longing for physical perfection. I’m sure there’s a name for this delusional way of thinking – possibly it’s a specific kind of narcissism. If feels too ingrained to let go of. But perhaps if I can change my lifestyle sufficiently my outlook will naturally adjust.

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For me depression is about no longer being able to believe in the positive futures your mind creates. No matter how much effort I put in,  regardless of how much time and money I spend, I cannot see a future that feels meaningful, that I can believe in. One that motivates me to get out of bed in the morning, or push through all the discomfort and crap that everyday life throws at you.

I cannot imagine a future where I feel a real connection with another human being. Where I have anyone I can be real with. Anyone I don’t feel afraid around, in case they catch a glimpse of my inner wretchedness. I’ve made that impossible for myself. It doesn’t compute. Any scenario I try to concoct, any path toward it, just rings completely hollow. I have no real hope. I’m just grasping desperately at straws, to avoid acknowledging the truth – that there’s no real point to my continued existence.

And that longing doesn’t go away, even when it’s impossible to fulfil. It just festers and torments you. It becomes a source of pointless suffering.

So either I endure the pain of the pointless existence I’ve created for myself, or I pass that pain on to my family, by undermining the meaning they’ve invested so much of their lives in.

There are no good choices here. If I continue to live, I expose myself to pointless suffering. If I end my life I expose my family to that same level of suffering.

I imagine the status quo will prevail, until I run out of road. I’ll continue to do ever more self-destructive things to attempt to block out the hopeless reality, as the pain grows greater month by month.

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