Discussion in 'Rants, Musings and Ideas' started by jonstark, Feb 25, 2008.

  1. jonstark

    jonstark Well-Known Member

    I can't remember why I wanted to live. I don't want to be happy. I don't understand what happiness means. I don't want not to feel this way. I can't understand why I'd ever be afraid of death. Fear of pain and suffering, I understand; but fear of death - that's absurd!
    I had a near death experience last summer and all I could feel was a general boredom. I thought, what, is this how I'm gonna end? How trite. Then outside forces prevented my death. That was before the descent of major depression.

    My dreams have disappeared and there's not a tinge of regret in my head. I wanted to travel. Why? I've seen enough. I can travel farther in my head than with my body. And besides, no matter where I go, this thing will be with me. I think I wanted love at one point, but now I no longer know what that means. Love, lust, obligation, people don't make a difference. And yet I suspect lack of 'love' can be terminal. Catch22.
    I wanted to make something out of myself, but that seems so banal now. Money? Fame? Within my reach, why not, but why bother? Would money or fame satisfy me? No. I'd end up like Citizen Kane whispering "Rosebud". Might as well not wait for as long as he waited.

    I can only produce two reasons for the continuation of my existence, and those are the search for purity, meaning 'love' and art. But if love exists at all, I doubt it exists for me. Not that I'm unworthy, on the contrary. I'm capable of loving and capable of being loved, but there is something missing, there is something missing and I don't know know what that something is but I feel it missing.
    Art is all nice, music, writing, soccer, ballet, whatever, but I don't feel it is enough. And depression often makes me incapable of doing anything. Often I feel revulsion to the very idea of writing. No good.

    And my reasons for NOT killing myself are a bit thin. The first one is the pain I'd cause those around me. Not enough of a reason. I can't make myself believe those around me really love me. Some of them, maybe, a bit, but on the overall not enough. Most of them just 'love' their image of me - which is a covert way of loving themselves.
    And the other reason, the absurdity of suicide knowing you'll die anyway, well, there's the prisoner's paradox.
    Some prisoner was sentenced to death on a Sunday. The judge told him he will die within the next week, but he won't know on what day. So the prisoner figured they can't off him on Sunday, because on Saturday he will know there is only one day left in the week and hence the condition of the surprise will be violated. Analogically the prisoner goes through the whole week. He concludes the authorities can't execute him. Imagine his surprise when on Thursday the executioner comes in and leads him to the gallows.
    With that paradox in view, the absurdity of suicide bores me. Ok, I feel pain, existential pain emotional pain whatever. I feel I've reason enough to off myself. Fuck paradoxes.

    The idea of 'seeking help' baffles me. First, I have to assume there is something wrong with me. I've a 'disorder'. I'm not 'normal'. No thanks. Again I refer to Catch 22: am I the only crazy person around, or is everyone but me crazy? How can I know? I know myself well enough to assume the second alternative. I'm morbidly sane.
    I hate the methods of treatment available. Pills with a myriad of side effects. So to 'balance my chemicals' I need to become a slave to the pharmaceutical companies and lose my libido and suffer a variety of other side effects. No, thanks, guys!
    Counseling? What the hell can anyone that has never been through it tell me? And don't I have enough people that know the beast intimately on this forum?
    Cognitive-behavioral-therapy? I recognize depression lies to me. I've plenty of respect for myself. It was all the positive thoughts and the physical exercise and the correct eating that I did over the years that delayed depression for so long. I know what I'm dealing with. And yet in the end it still arrived.

    I don't really feel bad per se. Sure, I feel pain, but I can handle it. I don't know what I feel. Nothing. There is nothing. I can't say I feel hopeless, because I can't imagine what 'hopeful' would be.
    Whatever. Enough ranting :/.