The things I don't know

I'm wrestling with the idea of ending my own life as I think about all the things I'll never achieve. In that light, whatever might remain for me seems to pale in comparison. Looking at the track record, is it really that hard to believe that there might be nothing else? It seems to me that I have all the reasons in the world to give up. I don't have a group of lifelong friends with whom I share a deep connection. I've never had a lover, and I grow more unattractive every day. I've never been particularly healthy, and my physical health just seems to be deteriorating further.

I heard that a person's neuroplasticity only tapers off after the age of twenty-five. So changing will only become harder from here on out? What's the fucking point? I've never been good with money, dependable, or special. I've just been different. Different, but not better. I've never been particularly good at anything at all. A burden for all who know me. A downer. Far from the life of the party, I... I'll never be able to do all the things I dreamed of. Thinking about it now makes me want to weep. Every day I get farther from my once-cherished ideals.

I remember when I was a kid, I wanted to learn free running. I was convinced that with some regular core training, I could pull it off. The freedom that came with flexibility, mobility, and balance. I wanted to try all these adventure sports. I wanted to learn how to swim. Such simple goals feel so out of reach now. I struggle to breathe every day. The cracks and aches inside my chest as my organs overlap and struggle to find space. The immeasurable amount of lifelong damage caused by over twelve years of aggressive smoking. 

What is it that I can do anymore? Can't I at least have the comfort of being able to give up? Can't I even make a small choice in this powerless existence? I think that if I cry and sulk about it enough, there will be some other side where things will be different. Maybe I could be different if I face my problems. Maybe there is something at the bottom of this abyss. With that fool's dream, I gnaw and claw, I flail and wail, aimlessly, lost in the darkness, unable to tell up from down.

I used to be this know-it-all who felt better than others for being able to see things more clearly than they could. I felt so confident in my ability to tell right from wrong. Where is that surety now? What has become of that optimistic hope? I always enjoyed brooding. It's so comfortable to feel special in your suffering. They all can't help me, they haven't the slightest clue what I'm struggling against. There's no point, I'm all alone, and there's nothing worth fighting for. I thought that, if nothing else, I could help out those who felt the same way. But I don't think I can help anyone. I feel inept and incompetent. 

I don't know many people who are like me. Everyone is playing their own game, so it's impossible to tell. I thought that if I spoke out, they would hear me. But at the end of the day, what do I have to say? You're not alone? Just another brick wall talking to itself in front of others. Only there to hear my words echoing back to me, knowing nothing about the ones I speak to. 

There isn't anything left of me anymore. No penance to be paid that I can afford. How lovely it would be to sink inside this abyss and sleep for all eternity? My parents can find comfort in their religious community. My sister can find it in her lover. So can the two or three of my friends. They all have somebody to lean on. I thought I stopped feeling sorry for myself a long time ago. How can I redeem this wretched brain that's drenched in the tar of pure death? I cannot change myself. I have failed miserably. There is nothing else.

A twenty-five-year-old aspiring artist? An up-and-coming forty-year-old director? Who am I kidding with this shit? I thought that if I found a dream that got me excited enough to get out of bed in the morning... I thought that if I conjured up a vision that was attractive enough, maybe I could muster up an ounce of courage. At least I feel something when I'm miserable. At least I forget about how my lungs feel when I'm crying.

Strength is the word of the day. Willpower, conviction, persistence, discipline, perseverance, steadfastness, stubbornness, determination, faith, belief, confidence, obsession, power, control, dominion, and endurance. Those are the kind of things I require to keep going. I may give up on my dreams one day, but with just a few of those other things, I can still avoid total failure. I can still have something approximating a worthwhile existence. I may never have the things that are gone, all the lost opportunities that stab my heart as bitter regret, the time that I have wasted, and all the things I've thrown away. All the mistakes I've made can never be undone, and that hurts me. All the scars are still within me, I carry them wherever I go.

The damage has already been done, and it's only natural to grieve it. How can I slowly start to rebuild? How can it be a sustainable effort? Can I ever stop making to same mistakes? I shudder at the possible ramifications. The potential answers are just terrifying. If I truly cannot, then there's little point in trying. I know games don't need any real reason. We might exist just for its own sake. But who would willingly play a game they have no chance of winning? I cannot see myself coming out of this on top. I don't think I can make it in one piece. If nothing else, I can find comfort in this truth. Nowhere else can I find the comfort of self-honesty. How reassuring to know that I can admit anything to myself.

That's the only thing that is now keeping me together. What can be more reassuring than being truthful to yourself? It shows that you are still sane in an insane world. It's like a recognition of your own existence. An embracing of your own being. Self-sufficiency at its finest. As I struggle to put the pieces together and struggle to keep taking steps, I might not have much to look forward to. I may feel pain and heartache, hunger and loneliness, misery and utter hopelessness. But, at least, I can admit all of it to myself. At least, I can recognize it all for whatever it may be. Who can take that away from me? Only time can do that. 

Perhaps there are some unalienable truths of reality. Where there is time, there must be death. Where there is life, there must be will. How shall I muster up the strength I need to keep on with my job? How shall I summon the willpower necessary to pull myself together? I am weak, and I feel old. I feel tired, and all messed up. There doesn't seem to be anything that I can achieve in the first place. How can I attempt something I have no chance of winning? Must a delude myself and lose the only thing holding me together? Do I have no other option than to start lying to myself until I believe it?

What a cruel fate that would be. I cannot survive another come down like this one. I don't have it in me to feel this way again. The cycle of lying, attempting, failing, and feeling hopeless. Viscious doesn't begin to describe it. It takes so much of a toll on someone like me. They say that God can help me in this regard. Hopeless as I am, I can allow God into my life, and he will move through me. Something to think about as I live my fruitless existence. What sort of resistance do I have against him in the first place? Why do I choose to unnecessarily burden myself with more responsibility than I can bear? 

The answer to that, I do not know.