thehusk

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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Reasons To Kill Myself:

• Bringing my current experience of fear, regret, despair, longing, guilt, shame, & self-hatred to an end.
• Avoiding the risk of more extreme forms of suffering in future – violence, agony, horror, imprisonment, disability, degenerative disease etc.
• Ending my capacity to negatively impact the lives of others.
• No more exhaustion, physical pain or discomfort.

Reasons Not To:

• Doing so seems likely to permanently devastate my family – my parents and sister – good people, who seem relatively happy right now.
• It would end my current capacity for positive experience – no more pleasure, enjoyment, excitement. No more beauty. No music. No more wonder at this universe.
• Finally giving up on the slim chance of happiness returning in future – no love, connection, or contentment.
• Ending any ability to positively impact the lives of others .
• Having to face the risk of a worse existence beyond death – of consciousness somehow surviving in a state of greater suffering.

Each day I make the same choice. And each day I find myself unable to face my current reality, and end up questioning that choice. Perhaps when my parents are dead, or when I’m older and closer to death myself. Maybe when my ability to absorb myself in worldly distractions is reduced. Or when all dreams of happiness are finally vanished. Sooner or later, things will get worse. Hopefully I’ll be able to checkout when they do, rather than being trapped in the misery.

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No suicide for the time being, so gotta focus on making things less painful. Except the pain is leaking out of me, consuming me. I did this to myself. I chose this. I didn’t think it would be like this, but no one ever does. I desperately want to make it stop, but I don’t know how.

Got to focus on making things better. Even though I feel dead inside. Got to figure out a way to stop torturing myself like this. I’m utterly alone, and always will be. No one could ever accept me as I really am. I made myself into this. No way back. Got to find a way to accept it. Take pleasure in the small things. Dismiss the longing deep inside.

Pull yourself out of your bed, with the energy you don’t have. Ignore the dead feeling, the numbing ache, the despair. Focus on making things marginally less bad.

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It’s so absurd, the position I’ve got myself to. To despise myself so much, to feel so utterly worthless, yet still be so attached to being. To the memory of who I used to think I was, before I learned better. To the fantasy of who I could’ve been.

I have no idea how to reconcile those conflicting emotions. I should be dead. I shouldn’t exist. I’m a stain on this earth. But I don’t think I can wipe myself away. I’m still so attached to this world. Or to an idea of it. To being. To thinking. To conceptualising. Addicted to the contents of my own mind.

Perhaps all that lies beneath that is pure survival instinct. Must avoid death long enough to propagate my sub-par genetics. If so, am I even capable of overriding such instincts?

On the one hand, I shouldn’t exist. On the other hand, fear of death. Fear of making the ultimate mistake. Is it rational to fear death, when it comes for us all? But I do. I fear the effects on family. I fear the experience of dying. But mostly, I think I fear the irreversible finality of it. I’m afraid of somehow making the wrong existential decision. What if death isn’t the end, and something worse awaits? What if a meaningful life was possible after all, and I just couldn’t see it?

I can’t see how I’d ever be able to overcome those fears, without something even more terrifying in this world pushing me to do so. Which leaves me stuck here for the foreseeable future.

Rationally, I should be attempting to minimise the amount of suffering I cause myself while here. But I can’t seem to bring myself to do even that. I suppose I’m addicted to my suffering – to scratching away at my psychological scars. To reminding myself what could’ve been. Pain is often the only thing that seems meaningful – without it I’d be lost somehow – just empty and blank. In short, I’m completely fucked.

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I find it so hard to keep hold of a consistent view of reality. I’m not psychotic – I don’t see or hear things that aren’t there. But I am extremely neurotic. My perceptions of this world and it’s nature are constantly fluctuating, from moment to moment, and I don’t know how to cope with that. No matter how many times I hammer out my reasons for continuing to live, and write them down to try to reinforce them, within a few hours I’ll be gripped by despair again and emotionally convinced I’d be better off dead. It’s an endless loop.

I believe my parents would be devastated by my loss, and I don’t want to do that to them. I’m afraid of death, of the experience of dying, of it not being the end. I’m still attached to this existence, and to unrealistic dreams of a life.

But I don’t seem to be strong enough to survive in this world. There seems to be such enormous capacity for suffering all around, and it terrifies me. I want an escape. I want protection. I want to preemptively remove myself from existence before it can hurt me any worse.

I don’t know how to live with that fear – it’s utterly crippling. And I have nothing personal to face it for. I have no prospects, no future, and I’ve put myself beyond any kind of honourable life. No emotional honesty or authenticity possible here. I’m continuing to live purely because at the moment it’s the marginally less terrifying option.

But in doing so I’m making my existence needlessly painful. Because this door in my mind is still open, constantly questioning and examining whether it would be better to end things. So every little negative is picked up and emphasised to the fullest.

I need to draw a line under this somehow, but I don’t know how. I can’t function like this – terrified and despairing of this world, but too afraid to end it. I need strength. I need resolve. I need enough emotional consistency to go a few days without struggling to remind myself why I haven’t ended it as quickly and painlessly as possible.

Let’s face it, what I really need is a personality transplant – to have the brain of someone capable of clarity of perception and not hyper-reactive to every potential threat. But I’m stuck experiencing the world as I do –  a terrifyingly bewildering place that I mostly just want to avoid.

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Desire is the problem. If I could just let go…I would be so much more functional. Imagine being able to fall asleep without this longing gnawing away at me.

It’s just programmed too deep inside of me. I can’t picture life being worthwhile without it. It’s like an article of faith at this point. A secular religion.

Wipe all that away, and what’s left?

But I should. I should give up the ghost, somehow. No more false hopes or delusions. Just compassionate, selfless pragmatism. If I could kill my desires and wants, then perhaps I’d stop thinking about killing myself. No more torturing myself. Just peaceful emptiness.

How do you make yourself not want anymore? Not care. Desire nothing. Pursue nothing.

But then why live? Fear of dying?

This pathetic, delusional part of me keeps insisting that if only it gets what it wants, all will be well.

I like to think myself a rational person. But with this…I just can’t seem to acknowledge the truth. It is literally a matter of faith at this point. No amount of contrary evidence can apparently reason me out of it. I am the most brainwashed of fundamentalists. This is the foundation upon which everything else is built, and I just can’t seem to give it up. A world without it is not one I want to live in. So every night finds me praying to the God of Desire, and longing for the promised land where my wishes will finally be fulfilled. It seems reason really is the slave of the passions. Pathetic.

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It’s truly pathetic how much of my life I spend longing after ‘what could’ve been’. Such a seemingly simple, basic thing becomes a source of endless misery and regret, when in theory it could’ve been so easy.

But now it’s too late. And I get to enjoy endless reminders of that fact. ”Hey look, it’s that thing that feels most vital and important in the world to you. Except now you’re past it. Too bad!”

Such a fundamental, elemental thing, and it still all comes down to right place, right time. You miss the boat, then that’s it. You get to live with your constant longing and regret. Tough shit. Life rolls on, and the next contender is ready and waiting.

But even back when it was the right time, I wasn’t the right person. It’s not like no-one ever warned me, ”Make the most of your youth, or you’ll regret it.” But I always thought I’d have more time to put myself together. I figured it would eventually just work out on it’s own, without having to go outside my comfort zone. Instead things just got worse and worse, and I fell further and further behind the curve.

The truth is I was so terrified of facing more rejection. I couldn’t take feeling any worse about myself. So I avoided any situation where I would have to risk being judged as inferior, and told myself that I would improve myself to the point where I wouldn’t have to fear that anymore. And in the meantime maybe happiness would just fall into my lap without me having to risk anything. So I wasted whatever opportunities were open to me, and now it’s too late.

I wish I could just forget it all and focus on what little remains for me, but unfortunately that’s not how feelings work. You want what you want. So I’m constantly causing myself pointless suffering, being reminded of it, and why I want it, and why I can’t have it.

I want to just stop, but…fear holds me back. I fear the experience of dying. I fear my consciousness somehow persisting, trapped with this regret and despair. I fear judgement and punishment. I fear the effects on my family.

And I fear letting go of the possibilities of this world, even though now they’re beyond me. While there’s life there’s hope, however delusional. Things could so easily still be good…if only life were simple. But it’s not. So I rot away, pointlessly suffering, waiting for something to tip me over the edge. Pathetic.

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I think perhaps part of what led me here is a failure to adjust to reality, in comparison to those around me. There were others dealt far worse hands in life, who still managed to make something of themselves. It seems they confronted the cruelty of their circumstances, adjusted their expectations appropriately, and worked out how to make the best of what they had. I don’t think I ever understood how to do that. When confronted with a harsh truth, my response was generally to retreat into fantasy. Whenever I hit a real obstacle, I gave up.

I’m not sure why that was. Perhaps things were just too easy in my early years. I never really wanted for anything, so I never had to learn to deal with not getting it. We weren’t rich, and I wouldn’t say I was spoiled exactly. Just sheltered. My world was a narrow filtered ideal. I enjoyed what I had, and I generally wasn’t aware of what was beyond me. Maybe at some point I was mildly jealous of a richer friends computers or trips to disneyland. But it didn’t really matter. None of that stuff meant that much to me.

But then suddenly I was living in a new area, aware of hostility around me for the first time, and I had no idea how to cope. How do you deal with people who don’t like you? How do you make friends when you can’t relate to the lives of those around you? I responded by shutting down, obsessively censoring what I said and did, trying to hide all my weaknesses, and withdrawing into fantasy worlds.

It wasn’t until a few years later that I first had the experience of really wanting something, something that felt important. The reality check was crushing when it hit me, that what I wanted was so far beyond me. I had no idea how to deal with that reality, with the feeling of inferiority it solidified in my mind. That I was unpopular. Socially awkward. Kind of average looking. Weak, hypersensitive, and timid. It was absurd for me to ever set my sights so high.

Now there are two ways I could’ve responded to this terrible feeling of inadequacy. I could’ve resolved to do everything possible to improve myself, my character, my capabilities, to fix the huge weaknesses I’d somehow managed to develop over the preceding years. And maybe if I’d really set to it I would’ve eventually reached my aspiration. Or at least found something similarly meaningful along the way. Who knows. It would’ve been a long shot, but I can’t rule it out.

Or I could’ve simply adjusted my aspirations, and moved on. Accepted my place in the pecking order, and focused on making the best of it. Stopped wanting what I couldn’t have, and returned to appreciating all I already had. This is what seems to have happened with so many people around me who had it harder than me, and I have no idea how they did it. How do you move on? How do you accept a world that sees you as less than, and not let it bug you? How do you stop wanting what’s beyond you? How do you make what remains to you seem meaningful again?

So instead I chose a third option. I would obsessively fantasise about what I couldn’t have, while doing next to nothing to change the things about myself that made it beyond me. I told myself that if I just carried on following my flawed instincts long enough, eventually I’d be magically rewarded with success. Guess how that worked out?

So now those dreams are far behind me, and getting further away by the year. It’s not possible anymore, not in a way that I’d want. And yet that part of me is still as strong as ever, obsessing away. It’s ridiculous. Pathetic. Move the fuck on. But I don’t know how. Perhaps it’s just a kind of stubbornness that runs through me. A refusal to adjust when it comes to what seems significant.

Reminders are constant and painful, but they also feel good. It feels good to want something, anything, so strongly. To have that kind of emotional clarity about anything in my life. To feel that if only I had this impossible thing, I would be at peace again. Everything else is tedious and bleak. A slow shuffle toward decrepitude and death, dominated by fear and confusion, where nothing seems worthwhile. Surely preferable to be reminded of something that feels like it would actually make life meaningful again, even if now you can never have it? Fantasy is the opiate of the failure.

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I should probably end it. Especially if I’m not going to do the right thing (I’m not.) People like me shouldn’t be. You reach a certain level of moral corruption and you’re no longer capable of living a normal life. And I just don’t have it in me to do the whole self-sacrificing redemption arc thing. So, self-destruction it is.

But that requires letting go. Detaching from all the impossible dreams I’ve built up over the years. Affirming that all the beauty present in this world is not worth tolerating this kind of suffering and alienation for. Allowing the full weight of my self-inflicted misery to finally infect those who care for me.

I just don’t think I have the heart to do it. To let go of who I could’ve been. To draw a line under the failure of my life. To contaminate all the positive memories of my youth with the truth of my ultimate worthlessness. I can’t seem to do it. I’m too hooked on the delusions of my past. I can’t bring myself to crush it all. To crumple up the repulsively stained script of my life and throw it in the trash where it belongs.

But I should. And that’s a real mindfuck. To know I shouldn’t exist, but keep attempting to continue. So many opportunities for self-sabotage.

It would seem rational to attempt to minimise the amount of suffering I cause myself while still in existence. Except that I deserve to suffer. People like me should suffer. Any happiness or peace I did find would be a further failure of conscience.

Apparently it’s not enough to fear the flames and pitchforks. You must repent of your actions in your heart. And I don’t. Not unequivocally. That’s the funny thing about evil – it doesn’t leave you, even when you recognise it. I can understand something’s wrong, and feel guilty and ashamed at times, yet still want to do it again at others.

So I’m not reformed, repenting, contrite, or saved. I’m essentially channelling my own evil, attempting to avoid contaminating others too badly whilst doing so. But I really shouldn’t. I should cease existence. I’m a cancer. A public health risk.

Dopamine distractions are always tempting, but tend to end in other kinds of suffering. Tearing it all down is fun while it lasts, but all I’m often left with is a greater awareness of how far I’ve fallen.

I’m alone, with the constant fear of the guilt and the evil within. A little hell of my own creation. Maintaining any kind of resolve feels impossible.

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I’m so tired. And even when I do sleep, it doesn’t help. I just don’t want to try anymore. There’s nothing left in the tank. There’s no hope for anything. No real motivation. Just try and delay things getting much worse.

I want to stop, but not enough to overcome my fears and end it. I’m so full of hatred and negativity, and I don’t know how to stop feeling this way. I’m angry at reality, which is so fucking pointless, but again, I don’t know how to stop. To let go of this expectation that things should be ok.

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So, assuming the main reason I haven’t killed myself yet is fear, fear of what? The experience of dying for a start. Presumably I’d fall unconscious fairly quickly with what I have in mind. Perhaps feeling a bit lightheaded or nauseous beforehand. But what if there’s a surge of panic when I feel it kicking in? What if I reflexively abort it halfway through, and end up with permanent brain damage?

Supposing I do get to the point where I lose consciousness, and my brain cells start dying off…what’s that like? Is it actually like anything? Is there a sudden flood of activity as parts of the brain realise that the oxygen supply has been turned off? Is there terror? Desperation? Regret? Does your life flash before your eyes in painful detail? Does every second start to feel like a tortuous eternity?

And when the brain’s finally dead, and all activity has ceased, is that really it? No more pain, no more thought, no awareness? That’s what I assume, but what if my thinking is skewed? What if there really is some continuous part of the self that exists independent of the physical body, as most people have claimed throughout history? I fear that. I fear being confronted with what I’ve done in life. I fear judgement, shame, punishment, torment. I fear having to exist with the awareness of what I’ve done, in a state of eternal regret and isolation. Of course, I see no logical reason to believe in any of that. But what if I’m wrong?

Then there’s the attachments I have to this world. I fear letting go of my impossible hopes and dreams. Finally admitting reality…that there will be no happy ending. Facing the full hopelessness of my existence. That in itself is terrifying.

And I fear the effects on those I’d leave behind, who I’ve wronged so much already. Having to deal with my loss, when they’ve invested so much in me. I fear the devastation that would cause them. I can’t see them recovering. I fear being the one to do that to them, to cast that shadow over their lives. To pass on my hopelessness and despair to them.

So the question I’m left with is, to what extent should I let those fears dictate my actions? It seems like up to a point, delaying killing myself might be a sensible response. But when some threat of greater hardship inevitably arises, I should probably take the plunge. Being made homeless, or my past finally catching up with me. Serious illness, or disability. As soon as something like that appears, I should probably check out. Though it’s an open question as to whether I’ll be able to, when the time comes. I should probably prepare, so that I’m as ready as I can be.

But in the mean time…I have no idea how to go on living. I have nothing to live for. I’ve ruined my life beyond all repair. I’m just living to delay death. I feel so incredibly tired. Motivation to do anything is so hard. Nothing feels worthwhile. I’m running on fear, and nothing else. And this is as good as it gets. There’s nothing to hope for, no good outcome to fight for. There’s no happy ending, it will never be ok, and it will get worse over time. That sounds absurdly pessimistic, but I think it’s actually accurate. I just want it all to stop. But I can’t stop. To stop is effectively to die. And death still terrifies me.

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I keep causing myself misery. I don’t know how to stop. I want the wrong things. Rationally I know it’s no good for anyone. It’s not going to happen. Move on, try to make the best of a bad situation. But I keep getting reminders. And part of my mind craves those triggers. To feel that surge of meaning and desire again – to know clearly, if only for a moment ‘this is what I want. This matters. This is all there really is in this world.’

But then the contradiction hits – it’s wrong, reprehensible, terrible. Nothing good can come of it. It’s gone, too late. It never was, and it never will be. And that hurts so fucking much. When the only thing that feels truly meaningful and good is also terrible and hopeless. That right there is a recipe for despair.

And yet apparently that isn’t enough to push me to take the leap and do this world a favour. So I’ve trapped myself in this endless loop, where I spend half the time longing over something I can’t have, and the other half pondering why I don’t just end it already. Good job brain. Top marks for self sabotage. You win. You are the biggest loser.

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It seems to me that conflicting motivation is the source of my continued suffering. I both wish to annihilate myself, and to preserve myself. To put an end to my misery, but also to continue to pursue unrealistic life goals. To avoid all human contact, whilst also seeking connection and intimacy. Although these motivations fluctuate with mood and circumstance, over time none seems strong enough to win out over the others.

From this perspective, I’m trapped within a complex web of competing desires and impulses, stuck in a state of inertia finely balanced between. I want an end enough for it to be on my mind much of the time, but apparently not enough to actually face death. I want to find fulfilment in this life, but not enough to make the necessary sacrifices or expose myself to risk of greater suffering. A likely consequence seems to be that I’ll suffer unnecessarily by continuing to live, without achieving anything meaningful while doing so. Kind of the worst of both worlds, if you will.

So the problem is fundamentally with my motivation – my wants, drives, desires, cravings, impulses. I want the wrong things. I don’t know if there’s any way out of that impasse, other than the balance eventually shifting on it’s own. I can’t see any way to change what you want intentionally. To do so, surely you’d already need the motivation beforehand, to want one thing more strongly than the others? While wants and desires seem open to change over time, I can’t see any way to consciously control that process. Intentional action seems to require motivation to precede it.

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Why am I still here? I’m not sure. I’m scared of death. Scared of the experience of dying. Scared of my consciousness somehow continuing beyond. Scared of making the wrong choice. Scared of giving up on the possibilities of life. And I don’t want to devastate my family.

But I also don’t want this life anymore. I don’t want to be me. I don’t want my past, my mind, my emotions, my body. What I am should not exist.

Decisions were made, and continue to be made, and it all adds up to where I am now. The problem is me. The faults are mine. But there’s no fixing it. And the mess I’ve made of my life feels unbearable. I hate myself, I hate the world, I hate reality in general. I’m a horrible, hateful person. And it hurts. And I deserve that pain. But I can’t stand it. The sheer loneliness, the lack of hope, the gnawing fear.

If it can’t be fixed, if there’s no peace, then surely better to cease? But I seemingly lack the necessary conviction to take that leap in the dark.

A shot of clarity would be nice. To see the whole thing unobstructed, to know the truth. A little divine revelation. Or just for the fear to leave long enough for me to make a decision.

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So I took a ‘Big 5’ Personality assessment, and the results were predictably dire. Of particular interest were my scores on Neuroticism, Extraversion, and Conscientiousness. Kinda seems like I’m predisposed to be a complete basket case at this point. Wondering if anyone else has ever done one of these kind of tests? They appear to be the most creditable in terms of psychological backing, but the idea seems to be that mostly those traits remain relatively constant no matter what you do. Which would leave me kind of fucked…

Some selected highlights:

Neuroticism = 99% (Anxiety 99%, Depression 99%,  Self-consciousness 97%, Vulnerability 99%, Anger 90%, Craving 94%)

Extraversion = 1% (Friendliness 1%, Sociability 1%, Cheerfulness 6% , Assertiveness 7%)

Conscientiousness = 5% (Self-discipline 8%, Dutifulness 1%, Motivation 1%, Cautiousness 76%)

Agreeableness = 38% (Trust 7%, Altruism 3%, Morality 22%, Sympathy 69%,  Cooperation 66%, Modesty 94%)

Openness = 56% (Emotionality 82%, Imagination 75%, Intellect 61%, Liberalism 79%, Adventurousness 3%)

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This isn’t about suicide, except in concerning the kind of stupid thing that often contributes to feeling I want out.

My aunt is coming to stay in a couple of weeks, and I’m dreading it. I haven’t seen her in nearly 10 years. I’ve avoided every opportunity, every occasion. I skipped the weddings of my cousins, the birth of their children. The last time I saw her was my grandmothers funeral. It’s been over 7 years since I saw anyone from my extended family. I’ve tried to ignore their existence as much as I can. But in two weeks, she’s coming.

The thing about it is, she’s an entirely nice, decent, well-meaning person. They all are. It’s not them I’m dreading. It’s being me while talking to them. It’s having to acknowledge what a worthless loser I am to another person.

I can do it fine in the abstract – yes, I am a garbage person. Yes, I am both sad and pathetic. Yes, I’ve wasted all the advantages given to me, along with the last 12 years of my life. It’s depressing, but I can just about live with it.

But when it comes to letting others in on the fact, and the awkwardness & embarrassment that ensue…it just fucking kills me. I don’t know how to cope with it.

Now I know this is an irrational reaction. It will likely have zero bearing on my future prospects. There’s unlikely to be any negative outcome that can result from them seeing what a useless void of a person I’ve become. No insults will be thrown. It’s unlikely they’ll even criticise. It’ll just be awkward as fuck.

But still, I don’t know how to handle it. I guess I’m hyper sensitive to what others think of me. The shame of it just makes me want to self-immolate. I have an extremely low tolerance for embarrassment or awkwardness of any kind.

I’m dreading the small-talk. ”So, what have you been up to?” ”Literally nothing. I worked a shitty dead end job for 4 years, then quit and spent most of my days lying in a depressed haze for 3 years.” ”So, what are your plans?” ”Well, I’m thinking suicide may be inevitable at some point, but other than that I have no clue.”

I could arrange to be out of town when they come, but that might involve more stress than being here. I can’t really think of a legit excuse for not being around. I even considered joining the climate protests in London for a week, (which would have sent my anxiety off the wall) but it seems like they’ve packed up for the time being.

Without a good excuse of somewhere else to be, I think my Mum would probably be upset if I wasn’t here. And my aunt might take it as a slight (if she knows I’m normally here.) I don’t want to offend or upset anyone. I just really don’t want to be here when they visit. I don’t want to experience that awkwardness. I don’t want to be seen as the pathetic waste of space that I am. I don’t want them to see what I’ve become.

This sense of dread has been gnawing away at me ever since I heard she was coming. Gotta find some way out. I know it’s ridiculous, but I just can’t face it.

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Sorry to be posting again, but I really feel like I need to figure something out soon. I’m completely paralysed by indecision, and I don’t think I can go on like this much longer.

I have no idea how to choose, how to make decisions, how to act, when I have so much conflicting stuff going through my head. I want so many different, contradictory things at different points in the day, and it’s driving me insane. I don’t know what to do. I want to erase myself from existence, but I’m terrified of facing death. I want to end my suffering, but I also want to pursue fulfilment in this life. I want to be a better person, but I also want to pursue my desires, which might involve unfairly involving others in my dysfunction. I want to close myself off from the world, but I also desperately want to be known. I want to avoid the risk of extreme suffering in this life, but I’m terrified of facing worse beyond death.

How do you make decisions, without consistent values or beliefs? When your ‘heart’ wants one thing at one point in the day and the exact opposite at a later point? When your ‘gut’ warns you of conflicting dangers and threats? When it all feels equally vital and important and necessary?

I need some basis to make a decision, to act. I don’t believe in a religion, or creed, or anything much. I’d quite like to experience less suffering, but I don’t know whether that means I should be ending my life, or avoiding pursuit of certain desires. But I need some way of deciding.

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I seem to be posting a lot lately (sorry.) Every now and then I get a clear reflection of who I really am, and it’s hard to cope with. I am a bad person. Even when compared to other obviously bad people, I’m unacceptable. I wouldn’t quite say I’m the lowest of the low, but I’m damn close.

Now of course there’s always little things anyone can do to improve themselves. But I’m so far behind, morally and socially, that it seems like no matter how much I try, the best I could hope for would be toleration and pity. I mean if I really work at it, I could be the lonely guy who everyone keeps at a distance but still try to be kind to. The one who you invite to the odd social occasion secretly hoping he won’t come. He makes you a bit uncomfortable, but it seems like he’s trying hard, bless him.

It’s hard to summon up much motivation to strive for that. Maybe it’s pride, or narcissism, or stubbornness. Like I’m above that kind of existence (when really I’m so far below it.) But I think perhaps I’d rather stay beyond the pale, out in the wilderness, than be tolerated and pitied as some broken thing.

I want to say ”Fuck You! You think you’re better than me?” Of course, odds are that you are better than me. I’m in the bottom 1%, morality wise. Statistically speaking, you’re probably in a position to fairly view me with disgust.

But when there’s no way to make up the debt, or wipe the slate clean, or return to an even playing field, it’s hard to accept that gulf. That you’ll never be truly worthwhile or acceptable.

I don’t want to be the broken thing that you look at, with pity or disgust. I don’t want to be the example of what not to do, and how not to live. I don’t want to have my inferiority constantly reflected back at me.

If I can’t be on a par, if I can’t be worthy or truly accepted as part of the tribe, then I think I’d rather cease being altogether.

I don’t want to feel angry with you for being better than me, for being in a position to judge me, though anger and resentment flow easily enough. I’m no Cain. No petulant shooting spree for me. The fault lies with me, not you. I mean, I could trace my flaws back to my biology, and the effects of a somewhat hostile environment. But that wouldn’t be your fault, would it? You were just better placed to succeed at this game we call life. To become a decent and worthwhile person.

Good for you. I wish you well (or at least I try to, when I’m not imagining you being atomised by some global apocalypse.) To the victor go the spoils. Congrats. Not bitter, honest. But I think I’d rather not be here to see it. Limping on alone, while you live your meaningful lives.

I wish I could just stop…but I can’t seem to bring myself to.

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I have these ideas in my mind of what my life should’ve been. Every day I get these little reminders, and it totally throws me. Just remembering that these things are still out there. Even though it’s not possible for me now. It cuts through the fog of my day to day struggle, and tells me ‘Look, remember this! It was real! This is what your life should’ve been! This is what would make life worthwhile!’. And then I remember why it’s no longer possible for me. Maybe it never was. And I don’t know what to do with that feeling.

I’m emotionally trapped in the past. And it hurts. The meanings I’ve attached to things…are causing me pain. And I don’t know how to stop that. Because there’s nothing else left for me. There’s no future. No relationships, no kids, no career, nothing I feel really passionate about. The only things that seem meaningful are in the past, lost.

All I’m really doing is running down the clock, trying to reduce the amount I suffer and avoid hurting anyone else too badly while I do it. But my emotions won’t adjust to that reality. I’m still hung up on things that I missed in childhood, and things that aren’t possible for me now.

I want to numb it all away. But I also don’t. Because I want something to feel meaningful, and important, and vital. I’m stuck in this cycle of pointless suffering.

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This life isn’t something that should be, surely. The chronic background of fear, guilt, shame, regret, despair, numbed by addictive hedonism. Better not to be. Nothing good can come of it. If anyone should kill themselves, it’s me. So why am I still here?

Maybe I fear cosmic justice catching up to me beyond the grave. Being left alone to face all that fear and despair with no means to push it down any longer. If I could somehow be certain that it was the end, then perhaps it would seem more appealing, and less like an existential leap in the dark.

Or it could be that I can’t bring myself to do it to my family. They’ve invested so much in me, and they don’t deserve to have my despair dropped on to them. Thinking about what it would do to my mum especially…it just seems unjustifiable. If there was some way to make them understand, to make sure they’d be ok, that they’d just forget me, then it might be something I could do in good conscience.

Perhaps it’s just dumb survival instinct, in which case I wonder whether I can bring myself to overcome it, even if things became agonisingly painful. Or maybe it’s attachment to being, to this self and it’s experiences – my memories, desires, cravings, addictions.

I want it to end, but it doesn’t seem like I’m prepared to do what’s necessary. I don’t know whether that’s a good choice or not, or even why I’m really making it day after day.

I wonder how many times I’ve written copies of this sentiment over the last 5 years. I’ve been stuck in this holding pattern for so long now – without hope or purpose or any resolution in sight. I just keep on in my misery…because I don’t know what else to do.

I’m fairly sure this isn’t hell…it’s not excruciating enough. Much of the time I’m able to push it all down and focus on the small meaningless distractions that pass in front of me. But there’s no hope here. There’s no way out. There’s no overcoming. There’s no escape. No peace. How do I sleep at night? Poorly, that’s how.

I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Maybe it never will. But it’s in my head, the awareness of what I’ve done and what I am. It’s always there, in the background, casting a shadow over everything.

Possibly the outskirts of hell. The suburbs? Trapped on a train moving at snail’s pace toward the centre. Everything could almost be fine, it’s not too uncomfortable, there’s still some nice views out of the window. But there is most definitely no way out. And in the distance some terrible shapes begin to emerge…

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